


Hold my Eyes to the Sky

by myrmidryad



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Bounty Hunters, Internalized Homophobia, Journalism, M/M, Seventies Setting, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Werewolf Discrimination, Werewolves, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-07-13 21:36:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 64,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7138202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrmidryad/pseuds/myrmidryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>If Enjolras wanted to build his own pyre, let him. Grantaire didn’t need to burn at his side for the sake of some doomed quest for equal rights.</i><br/> </p><p>Paris, 1971. Grantaire is a werewolf, reluctantly persuaded into letting a recently-bitten journalist Enjolras interview him for a book he's writing about lycanthropy, and the prejudices and practical difficulties werewolves experience, from job discrimination to being hunted for black market potion ingredients.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold my Eyes to the Sky

Grantaire sidled into the Corinthe a little after seven, looking around for familiar faces. Even early in the evening, he could see Bossuet and Bahorel and some of the other regulars, the sight of them making him relax. The usual twinge of guilt followed, but he ignored it as he went over to the bar to get a drink. His main rule of not staying anywhere longer than three months was broken already, so why not indulge in the results?

The Corinthe was one of many wine-shops in la Cour de la Sorcellerie, the hub of magical activity below Paris’ left bank, one of the shabbier establishments in one of the side streets that split off from the main courtyard, which was big enough to fit two Quidditch pitches. Grantaire had started coming because the wine was cheap, and he’d stayed because of the people; a rough group of around twenty young witches and wizards.

They talked about politics and Muggle-baiting and discrimination and magical law, and Grantaire hadn’t been able to resist returning, drawn by the way he could feel like a real wizard just by sitting among them, picking up more and more about the world he should belong to with each hour he listened. There was no real schedule to it – sometimes all of them would be there, sometimes only a few – but some of them had tried to pull him into the crowd, tried to help him integrate.

Bossuet was a regular, his face a familiar, friendly one. He caught Grantaire’s eye as he turned away from the bar with a bottle of cheap wine in his hand, beckoning him over with a cheery smile. Inevitably, Grantaire went.

“Shuffle up,” Bossuet ordered his companions at his little table. Feuilly the illustrator, and Jehan, whose robes were patterned today with pale yellow skulls and little purple flowers. Grantaire slipped in next to him and started pouring his wine.

“How’s business?” If he asked the first question, it was easier to deflect any aimed at him.

“Dreadful.” Jehan was cheerful despite his declaration. “Joly’s still at the hospital, and I almost cursed someone for bringing their owl back in the most disgraceful condition – malnourished, feathers fucked to hell, some sort of throat infection…”

Once onto the subject of his job at the post office, Jehan could go on for hours, so Grantaire relaxed and drank his wine, glancing around to see who else was there. Marius and Courfeyrac were huddled in a corner, pouring over some piece of parchment like it contained the secrets of the universe. Bahorel was absent, and so were Enjolras and Combeferre, but Irma was holding court at a table of her own, black hair pinned up in an elaborate tower as she spoke animatedly about some new policy or another concerning magic carpets.

Opposite him, Feuilly smiled as he sketched something onto a piece of parchment with a stub of a pencil. Grantaire always tried not to stare too obviously, though he knew Feuilly wouldn’t have minded even if he’d sat next to him and asked for tuition. He’d never thought about who produced the moving illustrations for magical books before meeting Feuilly and watching him draw. He did tattoo designs too, and sketches for a couple of magazines.

He and Enjolras had sat together last time Grantaire had been here, discussing the possibility of Feuilly making Enjolras a tattoo. They hadn’t come away decided on a design, but Enjolras had been sure they would think of something. A symbol of some kind to represent his friends. Grantaire had listened while pretending his attention was elsewhere, wondering what Enjolras’ pale skin would look like saturated with bright colours. It was a dangerous line of thought that he’d tried to forget about as soon as he went home.

He couldn’t start thinking of these people as his friends. He’d already stayed in Paris too long, and there was no sense in pining for companionship now. Especially not from people like Enjolras, beautiful and clever, kind to his friends and sharp to dissenters. Grantaire allowed himself some familiarity with Bossuet and a couple of the others, but Enjolras was in another league entirely.

Enjolras was a brilliant wizard, talented and bold, a demon with a quill. Grantaire couldn’t afford to have the Magie Aujourd’hui (the newspaper which Enjolras wrote for) delivered, but he scrounged discarded copies where he could, had done ever since someone in the Corinthe had let him have theirs so he could read Enjolras’ latest article. He had a regular column, a weekly feature where he would write about all manner of things. Politics and discrimination and Muggle rights and cultural affairs. Any subject he turned his quill to came alive on the page for Grantaire, his passion bursting forth from every word. It was intoxicating to read, and when Grantaire had discovered he had a book as well, he’d stolen a copy.

It was called  _Réflexions_ , and it was two hundred and fifty pages of Enjolras at his best, his wit sharp enough to cut, his indignation blazing, savage and eloquent enough to take Grantaire’s breath away. He hadn’t understood about half of it the first time around, and only a little more on his second and third reads. The problems with living outside of normal society for most of his life were made embarrassingly obvious when references to names and events drew nothing but a blank in his mind. Some subtle enquiries at the Corinthe had cleared up a few things, but there was still a lot he didn’t dare ask about for fear of being exposed as ignorant.

He almost didn’t mind. It was enough to understand most of it, enough to imagine Enjolras saying such things to him alone. He rarely spoke for long in the Corinthe, preferring to listen unless he had something meaningful to say. Despite that, his absence was always keenly felt by Grantaire, and he was sure the others felt it as well – Enjolras was magnetic, the pivot on which this group turned, and even though Grantaire was on the outskirts, it was impossible not to feel the pull.

Bossuet was halfway through a story involving a cat and a hippogriff when Enjolras walked past, and Grantaire’s vision seemed to blur, a jolt running through him. His fingers on his glass slipped, and he cursed as the contents splashed down his front, the glass falling to shatter on the floor.

Enjolras turned, attention caught by the sound, and Grantaire couldn’t breathe as they stared at each other.

Enjolras was a werewolf.

Enjolras hadn’t been a werewolf last time Grantaire had seen him, but he was now, and it was only Bossuet’s exclamations over the mess that made Grantaire look away and pull his wand out, ears ringing so much he could barely hear himself cast  _Tergeo_  on his soaked robes. It didn’t work very well, but the material was dark enough that it hardly mattered, and Feuilly had already repaired the glass.

“I slipped,” Grantaire muttered, shaking his head and waving Bossuet off. “It’s fine, it’s nothing. Just clumsy.”

“At least it wasn’t the bottle,” Bossuet said, refilling his glass. “It could’ve been worse. Sure you’re alright?”

“It’s nothing, don’t worry about it.” Grantaire watched the hem of Enjolras’ robes sweep away, and only noticed then that he was flanked by Combeferre, and Courfeyrac had left his table to join them. What had happened? The full moon had been on Monday and it was the weekend now, so obviously Enjolras had been bitten, but by who? And how?

More pressing was the matter that Enjolras now knew exactly what he was as well. Grantaire lifted his head cautiously and sneaked a glance up at the back of the room. Enjolras was sitting down with his guards, looking very pale. That shock coursed through Grantaire’s body again as he looked at him, that strange recognition of a similar creature to himself.

Enjolras was a werewolf. The words kept going through his head, like a mantra. Enjolras was a werewolf. Enjolras, one of the most charismatic members of this odd club, was a werewolf. Beautiful, austere Enjolras, now doomed to a life of secrecy and fear. Grantaire wanted to lay his head down on the table and weep. How could this have happened? Surely Enjolras wouldn’t have done it on purpose.

He’d been making noise for weeks about writing a book about werewolves, the first book sympathetic to the monsters, with accounts from real werewolves to give it legitimacy. He’d been having problems finding any werewolves at all, let alone one willing to talk to him, and Grantaire gulped his wine, insides twisting at the thought that Enjolras might have somehow done this to himself intentionally.

Enjolras stayed for less than half an hour, and he caught Grantaire’s eye again as he left. He didn’t need to indicate in any other way that he wanted to talk, and Grantaire’s horror and curiosity was too strong for him to even consider resisting. He’d finished his wine in any case, so he left a minute after Enjolras did, nodding through the goodbyes from Bossuet and the others.

Enjolras was waiting outside, and his eyes widened when they fell on Grantaire. “What –”

“Not here,” Grantaire snapped, far harsher than he’d meant to sound. Enjolras recoiled, and Grantaire shook his head, indicating the street leading further away from the courtyard as he bit back the instinct to apologise. Enjolras followed when he began to walk, and Grantaire stepped close and whispered, ignoring the way his skin was prickling. “Give me your address and I’ll come to you later. We can’t talk here.”

Enjolras frowned, but didn’t argue. “I have an apartment at twenty-five, Rue Bonaccord. You know it?”

“Yes. Which apartment?”

“Six. Third floor.”

“I’ll be there tonight, late.” His tongue ached to ask what had happened, but it was far too dangerous to talk about werewolves in la Cour. He couldn’t even bring himself to look at Enjolras properly, afraid all his questions would burst forth if he did. He restrained himself to saying, “I’m sorry,” and hurried on, leaving Enjolras behind.

It was so unfair. Why should someone like Enjolras be cursed like this? Of all the least deserving people, why him?

Grantaire hurried out of la Cour and ducked into an alcove on the eastern path up to the surface to pull his robes off and stuff them in his bag. He was wearing Muggle clothes underneath, jeans and a sweater, and he took the steps up to the entrance into Muggle Paris two at a time. The door at the top opened onto a street near the Jardin du Luxembourg, an extra door in a building that nobody noticed.

Grantaire walked across the Seine rather than take the métro, keeping both hands in his pockets, and one on his wand. He’d had to sew the special pocket into the inside of his jeans himself, inexpertly spelled to conceal the lump. It would have been less conspicuous to have a pocket for it somewhere on the inside of his jacket, but not being able to pull it out in less than a second if necessary didn’t sit well with him.

His apartment was on the other side of Paris, so he waited out the hours in a bar, drinking slowly to calm himself down and get a hold on what he wanted to say later. In lieu of other entertainment, he people-watched, eavesdropping on nearby conversations and losing his own thoughts in the chatter of the Muggles around him. When the bar closed, he left and started making his way to Rue Bonaccord, one of several magical streets in Paris that repelled most Muggles.

Back across the Seine and down towards Montparnasse Cemetery, hand tight on his wand the whole time. The quiet streets set him on edge, the waning moon hidden behind clouds but still there, always present, always waiting. The porter at twenty-five didn’t glance up from her newspaper when Grantaire went in, climbing the stairs to the third floor, dressed once more in his thin brown robes, pulled on at the end of the road where no one would see him.

Despite the deep breath he’d taken before knocking, it still sent a thrill through him when Enjolras opened the door. Of fear or anticipation, he couldn’t tell. And under that, the jolt of recognition, something in his blood calling out in the presence of another werewolf.

“Come in,” Enjolras said after a moment, stepping back to let Grantaire inside. The apartment was large, opening onto a living room with a fire crackling under a mantelpiece overflowing with trinkets. Grantaire only paused long enough to take in his surroundings (open door leading to a kitchen on his left, a corridor to his right presumably leading to a bedroom and bathroom, large windows either side of the fireplace) before turning back to look at Enjolras and launching right into the issue at hand.

“What happened?”

Enjolras closed the door and came forward, expression sombre. “I was bitten.”

“I can see that!” Grantaire gestured to him, patience already worn thin from waiting (that it had been self-imposed made no difference).

“How can you see that?” Enjolras asked, suddenly intense. “How can I see you? I mean, how do I know you’re a werewolf when I look at you?”

Grantaire flinched, eyes flicking away for a second. “I don’t know, it just happens. You can just tell. It doesn’t matter,” he added, making himself look at Enjolras again. “What happened?  _How_  did you get bitten?” He sounded too upset, he could tell by the surprise in Enjolras’ expression, only there for a moment before it was smoothed away and replaced with something that might have been guilt.

“On Monday, we – Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and I, we went to Chaux, the forest there? We’d heard rumours there was a werewolf there, and we wanted…” He trailed off, possibly because Grantaire was gaping at him. “What?”

“You…” Grantaire had to shake his head, had to order his words. “You went to a forest on a  _full moon_  to find a werewolf? Are you insane?”

“We didn’t know what else to do,” Enjolras frowned. “I can’t write this book if I don’t have any werewolves to interview for it.”

“You did this for your book?” He’d realised that it was probably related, but he hadn’t expected Enjolras to be so incredibly stupid in his quest for sources. “For a fucking _book?_ ”

“It’s important,” Enjolras said, going cold. “A book like this could be ground-breaking, it could –”

“Fucking spare me!” He shouldn’t have drunk so much, he was too angry, he didn’t want Enjolras to dislike him, but it was probably far too late now. “You’ve just…” Another helpless gesture. “I can’t believe you did this for a book. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“It’s not the end of the world.” Enjolras glared at him. “I can handle this, I’ll get by fine. If anything, this will lend the book credence – I can write from personal experience now.”

Grantaire’s knees wobbled. “You’re insane,” he breathed. Enjolras couldn’t surely mean this. “You can’t  _tell_  anyone – you’ll be killed.”

Enjolras raised his eyebrows. “That’s dramatic. At worst I’ll have to register and prove to ministry officials that I’m capable of managing my condition.”

“You haven’t thought this through at all,” Grantaire realised out loud. “How the fuck? I thought you and the others were meant to be smart? How are you so calm? If anyone finds out, don’t you realise your life will be over?”

“I might have to move away,” Enjolras conceded. “If Monsieur Naveau decides to evict me based on this, there isn’t anything I can do, legally. Which is reprehensible,” he added, scowling. “Discrimination like that –”

“Shut up.” Grantaire couldn’t think. “Fuck. Sorry, this is just…I need to sit down, is that alright?”

“Of course.” Enjolras nodded to the sofa, and Grantaire sank into it. Enjolras sat in an armchair opposite him, and Grantaire rubbed a hand over his face. “I realise I have a lot to learn,” Enjolras said, quieter. “I was hoping you’d be able to help with that.”

Grantaire nodded automatically, but it was another second before he could lift his head again. “Rule one then,” he said. “Keep this a secret.”

“Combeferre and Courfeyrac know.”

There was a pang in Grantaire’s chest, but he ignored it and nodded again. “Fine. They’re willing to help you?”

“They’re my best friends.”

He supposed that was a yes. “Lucky you.” He cleared his throat, hoping he hadn’t sounded too jealous. “Right, okay. Rule two – forget the book.”

“Excuse me?” Enjolras raised his eyebrows, straightening. “Of course I’m not going to forget the book. How could I possibly forget it now? It’s essential that I write it.”

Grantaire stared at him, flabbergasted. “Essential? It’s essential that you  _live_. Are you an idiot?”

“I certainly feel like one,” Enjolras said sharply, “knowing that you’ve been sitting right in front of me for weeks while I’ve been trying desperately to find any werewolf to talk to me.”

“Of course I didn’t talk to you!” Was Enjolras serious? “I wasn’t going to tell you! I don’t tell anyone – that’s how this works. You never,  _ever_  let anyone find out.”

“Secrecy is just a stranglehold. Someone has to be the first to stand up and draw attention to this, and if it has to be me, then so be it. And you could help.” He leaned forward, gaze sending a shiver through Grantaire’s body. “You could do this with me. There always have to be trailblazers for every cause – we could make a real difference with this.”

Grantaire shook his head, something twisting in his stomach when Enjolras’ earnest expression turned to disappointment. “You don’t understand,” he muttered. “Not yet, you don’t get it. It’s too risky. No one in their right mind – no werewolf with even a drop of survival instinct is going to come anywhere near this. You have no idea how dangerous it could be.”

“Then explain.” Enjolras raised an eyebrow when Grantaire drew away, brought up short. “If this is something I need to know, then explain it. I’m new to this,” he added, a little quieter. “If you can help in any way, I’d be grateful for it.”

Grantaire was aware in a distant way that he was being charmed, but that didn’t make it any less effective. He swallowed, lacing his fingers together and squeezing tight, struck once more by the unfairness of it all. Someone like Enjolras didn’t deserve to have this sort of life thrust upon them. People like Enjolras deserved better than living in fear.

“Aire?”

Like the fear that kept Grantaire from ever giving out his full name. He wet his lips with his tongue and nodded, buying a couple of seconds to order the words in his head. His heart was racing. “You can’t tell anyone,” he said in a low voice, looking at the carpet between their feet, tracing the pattern in the red and burgundy threads. “You’ll be killed if you do. Really killed, I’m not exaggerating. It isn’t safe to be a werewolf in the open.”

“Why not? I assume you mean something besides the unchecked discrimination and prejudice.” There was a hint of impatience, and Grantaire closed his eyes for a moment, wincing in anticipation.

“Because of bounty hunters. If you tell people what you are, they’ll kidnap you and kill you. Quickly, if you’re lucky.”

Enjolras was silent, and when Grantaire risked a look up, he saw that he was frowning. “That’s murder,” he said as soon as their eyes met. “It’s illegal, it’s –”

“You’re not human anymore,” Grantaire interrupted. “You’re not a wizard. You don’t count. You’re a dangerous magical beast, and if people find out, you won’t last a week.”

The crease between Enjolras’ eyebrows grew more pronounced. “That wouldn’t happen.”

“They’d probably try to get you on your way to work, sometime you’re outside, exposed.” Grantaire looked back down at the carpet, heart aching. “They’d ambush you, and to everyone else it’d just look like you disappeared.”

“The others would look for me,” Enjolras said at once, but Grantaire shook his head again.

“They wouldn’t get anywhere. They’d go to the ministry, right? And the second the ministry hears you’re a werewolf, they won’t care. As far as they’re concerned, the hunters have done them a favour. Fuck, as far as everyone’s concerned, they did them a favour – they took a monster off the streets. They’re keeping people safe.”

“How do you know this?”

“ _Everyone_  knows it.” Grantaire squeezed his hands together and sighed. “Every werewolf, I mean. If you stick it out for a while, anyway.”

“But how?” Enjolras pressed. “I’ve never heard of people hunting werewolves. Not in an organised way, at least.”

“That’s because you’re not a criminal. People don’t talk about black market deals and illegal monster fights in the open, do they? You’re not going to get someone trying to flog werewolf fangs next to all the other vendors in la Cour, are you?” Enjolras didn’t look convinced, so Grantaire went on. “Look, why would I lie to you about this? You need to be careful now; if you’re not…death will be something to look forward to.”

“Why?”

“You’ll be tortured, that’s why!” Grantaire could feel the heat rising in his neck and he lowered his gaze again, acutely aware of Enjolras’ eyes on him. “Hunters who take werewolves alive kill them slowly,” he muttered. “You’ll be mutilated – there’s a market for werewolf parts, you know. Eyes, teeth, blood, bones, fur, all of it. And if they don’t kill you that way, they’ll pit you against other monsters in fights to gamble on.” Maybe if he scared Enjolras, he’d see sense.

One look at Enjolras’ face put paid to that hope. He was frowning, body tense and eyes bright with righteous anger. “This is why no one wants to come forward and talk to me?”

“It’s too risky.” Grantaire’s stomach twisted at the pleading tone of his voice, but he couldn’t help himself. “You have to understand that. You’re lucky! You have friends, a job you can do from home, security – no one has to find out. You could live, Enjolras.” The name burned his lips, something he couldn’t take back. “You could keep going like this and live your life as though this never happened.”

“And what good would that do?” Enjolras shook his head, hands balling into fists on his knees. “I won’t hide this for selfish gain. If there’s any way I can use this to help people, I have to do that, and you should as well. With both of us –”

“No.” Grantaire got up, skin crawling just at the thought of it. “No, I don’t want anything to do with your book, and you should drop it while you still can.”

“I can’t.”

Grantaire twitched, flinching away from Enjolras’ steady gaze. “Well I want no part of it,” he muttered, turning away and heading for the door. If Enjolras wanted to build his own pyre, let him. Grantaire didn’t need to burn at his side for the sake of some doomed quest for equal rights. Enjolras didn’t say anything to stop him leaving, and Grantaire fought down the strange lump in his throat as he hurried downstairs and stepped back outside, shivering in the frigid January cold. As tempting as it was to leave his robes on for warmth, they would be far too noticeable in Muggle Paris, so he paused at the end of the street to pull them off and shove them back into his bag.

It was a long way back to his apartment, and the walk would keep him warm once he got going, Enjolras at his back, the sky dark above.

 

The next evening came and went, as did the evening after, and the one after that. Grantaire didn’t return to la Cour, forgoing the company of his acquaintances in favour of staying in his apartment and trying to sleep, or wandering Muggle Paris with no destination in mind. By all rights, he should have left the city by now. Enjolras knew his secret – possibly he had told Combeferre and Courfeyrac as well – so Grantaire should have fled the night he’d left the Rue Bonaccord.

For some reason though, he hadn’t. The compromise was absenting himself from la Cour, at least for as long as he could. He would have to go back eventually, Muggle Paris not being the place to buy things like firewhiskey and degoire extract, but he could postpone it for as long as possible.

He hadn’t reckoned on how dismal the evenings would be without company at the Corinthe to look forward to, but he could manage. If anything, this was good for him, forcing him to notice how dependent he’d become on those points of contact with normal wizards and witches. He couldn’t afford that sort of dependency, he couldn’t rely on others or let them get too close. Those were the rules, and the rules kept him alive.

He tried not to think about how he was breaking one of the most important rules by staying in Paris. Gros wouldn’t have approved. Gros wouldn’t have stayed in the city so long in the first place. Gros would have handled Enjolras with far more grace than Grantaire had.

He kept himself as busy as he could, pickpocketing a few Muggle tourists (they always carried the most cash) and half-heartedly staking out a witch’s apartment. Magical folk were much harder to steal from in person, especially since mokeskin moneybags had come into fashion, but their homes were usually easier to get into, with enough preparation and the right spells.

Two weeks later, Grantaire went back to la Cour, his feet taking him there as his mind drifted. He needed degoire extract anyway, he rationalised. It was a week to the full moon, and he’d need more than he had right now to get through the discomfort that brought. Besides, he was going during the day, far too early to bump into anyone he knew.

If there was a treacherous spark of hope that he would be recognised and greeted, he buried it deep and ignored it.

La Cour wasn’t as busy as he was used to, it being a weekday morning, and Grantaire let his hair fall forward over his shoulders to hide his face a little, old self-consciousness making him more aware of everything around him, his hand tight on the handle of his wand. As a result, when an owl soared down from the roof and right at him, he almost cursed it out of the air. He had his wand out and up, and only bit back a stunner at the last second, recognising Joly’s barn owl just in time to curve his arm for it to land on. Its talons bit deep, and Grantaire hissed in pain, stepping out of the main path and into a shop doorway. “What the fuck?”

The owl shifted, feathers fluffing up before settling down, its black eyes fixing on Grantaire’s face. “Stop that,” he muttered, giving its talons an apprehensive look. There was a small scroll tied to its left leg, and he licked his lips before lifting his free hand very slowly to take it. “Please don’t bite me,” he whispered. “Don’t bite me, don’t bite me, don’t bite me…ahh.” He sighed as he slid the scroll out from the loop of string and struggled to unroll it without jostling the owl.

_R – I would be very grateful if you would come and see me again. I’m in my apartment every evening after nine. – E_

“Oh.” It slipped out before Grantaire could stop it, a soft, barely audible exclamation. A week to the full moon, he remembered, and Enjolras had never gone through the transformation before. He would have no idea of what to expect, he might not have the proper precautions in place, and he wouldn’t be expecting the aches and pains that preceded it.

The owl shifted again, the pressure of its talons making Grantaire grimace. “Do you want to go?” he asked it, lifting his arm when it spread its wings in answer. “Right, okay. Um…” He turned to face the square and took a deep breath before launching the owl off his arm, wincing again at the pain. It flew back up to the high ceiling of the courtyard, probably heading up to wait for Joly’s return.

He rolled up his sleeve to examine his arm, half-sure the bird had punctured his skin. Sadly, he had nothing to show for the encounter but a few reddish dents, and a few holes in the fabric of his robes. As if they weren’t shabby enough already. He almost turned around to head back out, only just remembering that he’d come here for a purpose, and it wasn’t receiving a message from Enjolras.

It was difficult to make himself go and buy degoire extract now, the spectacle Joly’s owl had created making him feel as though every passer-by was watching him, staring, their eyes raking his frame and pricking at his skin. But it would look stranger to anyone who really was watching if he left after getting an owl in the middle of the courtyard, so he forced himself to press on, leaving la Cour as soon as he could afterwards.

At ten that night, he went to the Rue Bonaccord, the drinks he’d had not doing enough to dampen his fear. He’d been trying not to think of Enjolras, trying to distract himself from the injustice of the situation, which he couldn’t seem to stop himself dwelling on.

Enjolras had always seemed as inapproachable and distant as a star before, but he was closer to Grantaire’s level now. No longer the perfect wizard, but a werewolf. A monster in hiding, right in the middle of a magical street. Grantaire dragged his feet as he approached number twenty-five, the porter ignoring him as before.

“ _Aire_ ,” Enjolras breathed when he opened the door. “Finally! Where have you been? Come in, come in.” He stepped aside and gestured Grantaire into the apartment, uncomfortably close as he stepped round Grantaire to close the door. “I didn’t know where to look for you, and no one else did either. You’ve never given anyone an address.” He stepped back, looking Grantaire over in a way that made Grantaire hunch his shoulders, trying to shrink. “And apparently you don’t have a job, and no one even knows your full name.” He frowned. “Joly said you have grandparents you take care of. Is that true?”

Grantaire’s heart was in his throat, an odd roaring in his ears. He managed to shake his head, moving away to put a little distance between them. “No. I needed…I don’t have a proper job, so I needed to tell people something.” He cleared his throat. “The full moon’s next week.”

Enjolras’ expression shifted, something uncertain passing over it before it became steely. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, yes. Or ask you about, really. I haven’t…we haven’t, Combeferre and Courfeyrac have been helping, but we can’t find any genuinely reliable information to help us understand what to expect. We’re in the dark.”

“Well.” Grantaire spread his hands, shrugging a shoulder. “I’ll answer your questions.”

Enjolras drew a short breath and nodded. “Thank you. Would you like to sit down?” he added, a little quieter.

“Oh, er…fine, sure.” Grantaire slipped round the armchair Enjolras had sat in last time and sat on the sofa, Enjolras passing him to take a seat as before. The fire was burning low in the grate, the basket of wood next to the fireplace half-empty, and the heat was almost painful on Grantaire’s bare hands. He clamped down on a shiver and looked around as Enjolras made himself comfortable.

He’d been too wound up to look properly, the last time he’d been here. The walls were crowded with framed photographs and articles, a few paintings Grantaire guessed were Feuilly’s work up there as well. It made the room feel smaller than it was, but cosy. Faces he recognised smiled down from the pictures. A tall potted plant stood next to the hall that led to rooms unknown, and there were lots of lamps on the walls, opaque glass hiding the flames inside. There was a writing desk covered in parchment against the wall behind Enjolras’ armchair, the chair in front of it comfortable-looking and worn, a tall bookcase against the wall at its side.

It was unmistakeably a  _home_  in the truest sense, and Grantaire had to drop his eyes to the carpet after only a cursory glance, envy an unpleasant burn in his throat.

“I don’t,” Enjolras started, then frowned and closed his eyes for a moment before looking back at Grantaire. “I want to know what to expect. What’s going to happen?”

Grantaire couldn’t look at him, leaned his elbows on his knees and curved forward to avoid it, studying his hands instead. “You should stay inside on the day, on Wednesday. The moon doesn’t always rise when you think it will, but you’ll be able to feel it, or…I don’t know, I can anyway, maybe it’s something you won’t recognise the first time.” He cleared his throat again. “Anyway, um. Stay inside. You’ll need to arrange something – do you have anywhere else you can go?” He lifted his head. “Somewhere away from people? Somewhere…” Enjolras was shaking his head, and Grantaire sighed. “Shame.”

“It only happens on the night then?” Enjolras asked, leaning forward a little as well. “Some books said it happens on the nights before and after as well.”

“Thank fuck it doesn’t.” Grantaire looked down again with a grimace. “Once is bad enough. If you’re going to stay here, you’ll need a cage, and maybe some chains. And you’ll need to silence every inch of this room. You’re going to be loud, and you can’t let anyone hear it. You’ll be able to smell all the humans around you, and it’s going to drive you wild. Wilder than normal, I mean.”

“Normal?”

“Werewolves, they.” Grantaire hesitated, swallowed, frowned at his hands. “Um. Well, they’re not like a normal wild animal. A caged lion might pace, might roar at its keepers. Werewolves are more violent, they’ll rage and bash themselves to bits against the bars. And smelling humans makes it a lot worse, so. It’ll be pretty bad for you to transform here, but if there’s nowhere else you can go, you don’t really have a choice.”

“Where do you go?”

“None of your business.” It came out sharper than Grantaire intended, and he winced as soon as he said it. “Sorry, I don’t mean…I can’t tell you, it’s nothing personal.”

“You’re just being careful,” Enjolras guessed, and Grantaire nodded.

“Yes. Sorry. Anyway, silencing’s the most important thing, once you’re sure you won’t be able to get out. You can probably set up some strong magical wards, or something,” he added, casting Enjolras a quick glance, not sure if he was right. But Enjolras nodded, so Grantaire looked down again. “Right, so. Those’re the basics.”

Enjolras was silent for so long that Grantaire lifted his head to see if he was alright and caught him frowning. “Will it hurt?” he asked quietly when their eyes met, and Grantaire found that he couldn’t look away.

It took a few seconds for him to answer, dry throat making his words come out in a croak. “Yes. It hurts a lot.”

“What about if I took a potion –”

“It won’t work.” Grantaire tore his gaze away, feeling scorched by the contact. “Or no potion I’ve heard of does, at least.” He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, tempted but unwilling to tell Enjolras about his preferred method of pain control for the transformation. He’d watched Enjolras in the Corinthe – he knew how he disapproved of overindulgence.

“Right.” Enjolras took a breath. “Will there be any aftereffects?”

“More pain.” It hurt just to say it, but there was nothing either of them could do to change reality. “Before as well. Maybe that’s what your books meant – a few days either side of the moon you’re going to ache, feel ill and shaky. I guess it’s because the transformation’s a lot for the body to take, but I don’t know for sure.”

“I see. How bad is this?” Enjolras asked, frowning. “Is it so bad I won’t be able to leave the apartment?”

“It varies. Some months are worse than others. If there’s a pattern to it, I haven’t noticed, but sometimes I just get muscle aches, and then sometimes I feel like I can’t get out of bed.” There was heat rising in his neck, and Grantaire kept his eyes resolutely on his hands. Enjolras needed him to be honest: there wasn’t any use in embarrassment. “You’ll probably be able to pass it off as headaches most of the time. Don’t you work from home anyway?” he added, the thought suddenly striking him.

“Sometimes, but I still go into the offices most days.” Enjolras’ feet shifted on the rug as he leaned back. “It doesn’t sound like it will impede me too much though. And Combeferre and Courfeyrac will help if I need them to.”

“Ah.” Envy again, a twist in his gut, making his blush worsen.

“You don’t sound very pleased.”

“I am,” Grantaire said quickly, then winced. “I mean, I’m not – not that you’re a, that you’ve been bitten, I mean. But I’m. I’m pleased you have friends. Still.”

“They wouldn’t have deserted me for this.” Grantaire didn’t have to look up to know that Enjolras was frowning. “This is a physical ailment, nothing more.”

“An incurable one,” Grantaire reminded him, bitter. “You need to be sure they won’t tell anyone.”

“They wouldn’t. I’m considering revealing myself through the book anyway.”

Grantaire slammed his hand down on the arm of the sofa, the thump making both of them jump.

“Aire –”

“Why would you do that?” Grantaire snarled, glaring at him. “Why would you throw your life away like that? You’re so  _lucky!_ ” The room seemed to spin around him, luxurious comfort a taunt. “Compared to anyone else, compared to any other werewolf, you have it so easy. I told you before, if you can keep this a secret, you should. It’s dangerous.”

“Someone has to do it,” Enjolras insisted, that terrible light in his eyes, too intense for Grantaire to look at for longer than a few seconds. “Someone has to be the first.”

“It’s not worth it.” Grantaire jerked his head, looking away. “Do you have any other questions for me? I need to go.”

“Oh.” Enjolras floundered for a moment – perhaps people didn’t usually step away from arguing with him. “How long does the transformation take?”

“Not long.” Grantaire looked down at the rug again. “Under a minute, usually.”

“So it won’t hurt for long.”

“No.”

“That’s something at least. Clothes,” he added, a little more hesitant. “It’s not like an animagus transformation, is it? They won’t transform with my body?”

“No. If you’re wearing clothes, they’ll be ruined.”

“I see.” He cleared his throat. “I think that’s everything. Unless there’s anything else you think I should know?”

“Degoire extract.” Grantaire glanced at him. “It’s a plant, the extract…it helps the joints and muscles. I think it’s meant for old people, but it helps me. It’s easy enough to get.” Expensive, but Enjolras could doubtless afford it.

“Thank you.” Enjolras stood, and Grantaire hurried to follow suit, letting him lead the way to the door. “You should come back to the Corinthe,” Enjolras added before he opened it, turning with his hand on the doorknob to look at Grantaire. “You’ve been missed.”

“Me?” Grantaire snorted.

Enjolras frowned. “Yes. You can tell the others your grandparents were sick and needed you to take care of them. You don’t have to stay away just because of what’s happened to me.”

Grantaire avoided his gaze. “I’ll think about it.”

Enjolras still didn’t open the door. “Will  _you_  be alright?”

“Me?”

“On Wednesday?” Enjolras was totally serious, even when Grantaire started to smile.

“I’ll be fine. I’ve been doing this a lot longer than you have.”

“I know.” Enjolras pursed his lips, then asked, “After the full moon, could I see you again? I’ll probably have more questions.”

“Sure.” Grantaire answered without thinking, something strange fizzing under his skin. “I’ll come here again,” he added quickly. “If that’s alright.”

“That’s fine.” Enjolras sounded relieved, and finally pulled the door open. “Thank you, Aire.”

Grantaire nodded and slipped out, hurrying away down the corridor. He didn’t hear the door close until he’d turned into the stairwell. Only then did anxiety begin to creep through him. Why had he agreed to come back here after the full moon? And why had he told Enjolras he would think about returning to the Corinthe?

Because idiocy and bravery were different words for the same thing, as Gros had so often reminded him.

Grantaire looked around out of habit as he stepped out of the building, and again at the end of the street as he removed his robes. Again at every crossroads, every time he heard footsteps (always Muggles), every time he passed a stranger.

Should he tell Enjolras to do this? The thought made his heart twist. Hopefully Enjolras would never have to be scared of shadows and the voices of strangers. Hopefully Enjolras wouldn’t feel the need to keep his hand on his wand at all times, to check the entrances and exits of the places he went, to avoid meeting new people.

Enjolras would be fine. Grantaire let himself into his own apartment, almost not bothering to turn on the light. He checked for intruders automatically, resetting the wards afterwards, but the sight of his own bare walls with their flaking paint depressed him. His bed squeaked as he sat on it, his weight making the springs scream. He needed to do a proper laundry run soon – his duvet smelled of the mould that was creeping in from the bathroom, and there was only so much Scourgify could do before real soap became necessary.

Enjolras probably had sheets that smelled clean. He probably made himself proper meals and read important books while he ate them, washing up with magic afterwards. A flick of his wand and the lights would go out. He probably bathed every night, in a white bathtub with clawed feet, the water staying hot as long as he willed it. Grantaire pulled his duvet up over his ears and kept imagining, drawing on the insides of other wizarding houses he’d seen for inspiration.

Enjolras probably had more bookshelves overflowing with interesting tomes and volumes. He grew his own herbs in his kitchen, drank tea in the mornings from a china cup and slept in a four-poster bed with red hangings, opulent and grand. He had his friends over often, several of them crowding together companiably in front of the fire, Enjolras playing host with easy generosity.

He wasn’t envious anymore, Grantaire realised with some relief as he fell asleep. The longing he felt now was nothing new – he’d felt that for almost his entire life.

 

Grantaire didn’t make it to Enjolras’ apartment until it was almost evening on Thursday. He had to pause in the stairwell on his way up to the third floor, almost panting from the exertion, shivers trembling through his skin, sweat prickling on his forehead and under his arms. He couldn’t let Enjolras see him like this, so obviously weak. Enjolras needed him to be an example – he would need hope, not disappointment.

Grantaire took deep breaths, slumped on the steps like a puppet with its strings cut, forcing himself to listen out for anyone who might approach. The last thing he (or Enjolras) needed was for him to be found like this. He wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, but it must have been several minutes at the very least. Probably more like fifteen.

It did mean he was slightly more presentable when he knocked on Enjolras’ door though. Hopefully more like he’d just had a bad night’s sleep than like he was coming down with the flu. He jerked back when the door opened suddenly, and a horrible bolt of shock snapped him backwards when he saw Combeferre in the doorway, not Enjolras.

Combeferre, who was staring at him with surprise fading quickly into a frown. Grantaire took another step back, fully intending to flee before anything could be said, but Enjolras called from inside, “Who is it?”

Combeferre frowned harder as he replied, not looking around. “It’s Aire.” And that wasn’t a frown of displeasure – it was confusion, already turning to thoughtful. Any second now it would be realisation, and Grantaire couldn’t breathe, his chest too tight to let any air in because Combeferre knew, he was far too clever not to figure it out, this was why Grantaire had always avoided him –

“Aire!” Enjolras shouted from inside, sounding relieved, and before Grantaire could stumble away, there he was, coming up to the door with one hand on the wall, a blanket around his shoulders. Combeferre turned and lifted his arms to stop him, so Grantaire had a moment to try and conceal his dismay. Of course he hadn’t wanted Enjolras to be laid low by his first transformation, but it still sent him reeling to see how shaky Enjolras looked.

He’d been upright and strong only a week ago. Now he was in his pyjamas, his bare feet on the dark carpet of his living room making him look strangely fragile. His hair was a tangled mess, coming out of its ponytail, and his eyelids were drooping.

“You promised you wouldn’t get up!”

“I never promised,” Enjolras huffed. “I  _implied_  I would stay on the sofa, I never made a promise.”

Combeferre made a tsking sound, and Grantaire swallowed when Enjolras smiled at him, tired but welcoming. “Come in. There’s lots of tea – Combeferre can’t help himself when he has someone to mother.”

Combeferre rolled his eyes, but went back into the apartment rather than look at Grantaire again, which was probably the only thing that kept Grantaire where he was instead of sending him running. Enjolras leaned against the doorframe and beckoned him forwards. “Come in, please – I wasn’t sure if you were coming.”

“He knows.” Grantaire barely recognised his own voice, and Enjolras raised his eyebrows, head tilting in concern.

“What? Who –”

“Combeferre.” Grantaire swallowed, trying to breathe properly. “About me, he knows, he knows what…”

Enjolras sighed and beckoned him in again. “I thought he would be gone by now. It doesn’t matter, he won’t tell anyone.”

Grantaire was still frozen to the spot, panic squeezing his lungs. He managed a sort of jerky shake of his head, and Enjolras took a step forward, a crease appearing between his eyebrows. “It’s alright. I trust him with my life, he won’t say anything.”

Apparently one stranger knowing his secret was all Grantaire’s brain could handle without completely breaking on him. He flinched away when Enjolras moved forward again, and only Enjolras whispering, “Don’t go!” stopped him from making for the stairs. “I wanted to talk to you,” Enjolras went on quietly. “Please?”

Grantaire’s heart gave a painful thud against his ribs, and he found himself nodding without thought. Enjolras smiled, his exhaustion suddenly very apparent in the line of his shoulders. “Come in then,” he said, standing back to make space. Grantaire had to swallow before he could get his feet to move, most of his conscious brain still screaming at him to  _run run run_.

There was noise in the kitchen – Combeferre moving around – and Grantaire jumped as he and Enjolras came into the living room and Combeferre called, “Tea?” through the open doorway.

Grantaire shook his head (more of a shiver) and Enjolras answered for him. “No, thank you. Sit down,” he added to Grantaire, collapsing onto the sofa with a wince. Grantaire lowered himself much more carefully into the armchair, keeping an eye on the kitchen door. He didn’t relax the way Enjolras did, keeping himself ready to run at a moment’s notice.

“He would have found out anyway,” Enjolras said quietly, drawing Grantaire’s attention back to him. “He’s not stupid.”

“That doesn’t mean you had to let him,” Grantaire hissed, the anger easing his fear. “Why didn’t you tell me he would be here?”

“I thought he’d be gone by now,” Enjolras whispered.

Grantaire opened his mouth to reply, then snapped it shut when Combeferre emerged from the kitchen. “I’ve cleared up the mess in there,” he told Enjolras. “Will you be alright if I head off?”

Enjolras smiled (Grantaire wondered if he realised how tired it made him look). “Thank you. I’ll be fine – I’m not alone.”

“No,” Combeferre agreed, his gaze shifting from Enjolras to Grantaire, who went very still, even after Combeferre turned away. “I’ll see you tomorrow then. Get an early night, will you?”

“I will. I couldn’t stay awake for much longer even if I wanted to.” They shared another smile, and Combeferre squeezed Enjolras’ shoulder before giving Grantaire a nod and collecting his cloak from a row of hooks on the wall. He left without looking back, and Grantaire didn’t look at Enjolras until he couldn’t hear Combeferre’s footsteps anymore.

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras said as soon as he did. Grantaire scowled – that Enjolras sounded contrite meant nothing. The damage had been done. “I would have told you to come later, but I don’t know where to send an owl.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered,” Grantaire found himself saying. “I left my place hours ago.”

Enjolras raised his eyebrows. “Aren’t you tired? I am.”

“It’s…something you’ll get used to, I suppose.” Grantaire looked down at his knees, lacing his fingers together between them. “How did it go? Last night?”

“It hurt, like you said.” Enjolras sighed and pulled his legs up onto the sofa, crossing them slowly. “I didn’t think I would remember everything. Is that normal?”

How had he forgotten to tell him that? Grantaire nodded hastily. “Yes. The mind goes away when you transform, or it…it becomes suppressed, or something. You’re not there while you’re a wolf, but you can remember what happened when you turn back into yourself.”

“How do you know that’s the case for everyone?” Enjolras pulled a cushion into the cradle of his legs. Grantaire looked down again.

“It’s the same for every other werewolf I’ve met.”

Enjolras absorbed that in silence. “How many is that?” he asked after a moment, hesitant in a way he hadn’t been the last time Grantaire had seen him. It made his heart twist the same way it had when Enjolras had asked him not to leave. There was something fundamentally wrong with a timid Enjolras.

“Not many,” Grantaire muttered. “Less than ten.”

Enjolras was silent for so long that Grantaire sneaked a look at him to see if he was alright. He didn’t even notice Grantaire looking for a few seconds. “You’ve been a werewolf for years, is that right?” he asked suddenly, looking at him. “That’s the impression you’ve given, at least. Is it true?”

Grantaire squirmed. “Yes.”

“And you’ve only met a handful of other werewolves in that time.” Enjolras frowned, then sighed. “I thought there would be more.”

“Why, you want to start a support club?” Grantaire snorted. “If you’re smart, you keep yourself hidden. It’s a bad idea to be seen.”

“Even by other werewolves?”

“Especially, sometimes.” He’d lit a fire, Grantaire could see it – Enjolras made a visible effort to restrain himself from asking for elaboration.

“I need to write this book.”

He’d half expected it, but that didn’t mean Grantaire didn’t groan and drop his head into his hands. “Enjolras…” How fast he had adapted to addressing him by name – it still felt a little uncomfortable, overfamiliar.

“It needs to be done! Think how useful it could be!”

“For hunters, you mean?”

“What?” Enjolras straightened, frowning harder.

“This book sounds like it’ll be a manual for them,” Grantaire said. “How to identify us, what our weaknesses are, how we behave, where we’re likely to go. All it’ll do is make us easier to catch and kill.”

“No, you’re thinking too small.” Enjolras shook his head. “This is going to be a book for the common witch and wizard, to snap them out of their constrained thoughts and preconceptions, to challenge their prejudices. My book isn’t going to be a biological study – it’s going to be an extended article, an account of real werewolves’ lives and struggles. It’s going to make people realise that they – that we – are not monsters incapable of rational thought, and that lycanthropy certainly doesn’t have an effect on morality and criminal behaviour.”

“Doesn’t it?” Grantaire couldn’t help himself, and jumped when Enjolras thumped the cushion between his legs.

“Of course it doesn’t! How can you say that?”

“Because being werewolves makes us criminals by default if we don’t turn ourselves in,” Grantaire couldn’t help the bitter note in his voice. “And what idiot would do that? Are you planning to?”

That seemed to draw Enjolras up short. “I’m not sure,” he said after a moment, quiet. “It would be a good statement to make, but…”

“But the statement would be ruining your life.” Grantaire squeezed his hands together and sighed. “It’s not worth it. Has  _anyone_  ever registered themselves? I bet they haven’t.”

“That doesn’t point to a lack of morality on the part of the werewolf though,” Enjolras said, barrelling on. “It’s a mistake on the part of the law. And a trap,” he added, scowling. “The few werewolves we have been able to find records for have been ones who have been arrested for being unregistered. Apparently they’re taken to Verecasat, but there’s little evidence of transportation. We were planning to visit and try to see for ourselves – it’s absurd that werewolves should be locked up on the basis of what they are.”

“We’re monsters.” Enjolras gave him a furious look, but Grantaire ignored it. “Nothing you can say or write will change that, you know. We hunt humans – we’re monsters. How do you propose we should be controlled?”

“We shouldn’t be controlled at all! That’s exactly the problem! You can’t have that sort of approach to a population which only becomes dangerous a few days a year. Most of the time, we’re perfectly normal. What we need is assistance, not control. And that means changing the law, and laws are only changed when the people who make them change.”

“But –”

“Let me finish!” Enjolras insisted. “I know people don’t want to change, necessarily – they need to be persuaded, and that’s what the book is for. The book will change minds, and that will pave the way to reform. It’s the first step in a long journey, but every journey needs that first step. And it needs to be decisive – it needs to have a real impact. And that means it needs to be true. I’m prepared to expose myself if necessary, but I can’t write this book based on my experiences alone, especially since I’m atypical, if what you’ve implied is true.”

“You.” Grantaire couldn’t think, couldn’t speak. “You can’t – exposing yourself, are you mad? What do you mean implied, what’ve I implied?”

“That werewolves live on the move.” Enjolras ticked his fingers off. “That they avoid contact with other werewolves and probably normal people as well. That they’re frequently unemployed, without any support from friends or family. Certainly without support from the Ministry. That they’re hunted, illegally I might add. These aren’t my experiences, and anyway, a book from just one person’s point of view lacks proper perspective and context. It wouldn’t be any good. I need other sources – other werewolves.”

“No.” Grantaire stood up, hardly aware he was doing so. “No, I told you before, you can’t do this.”

“I have to!” Enjolras struggled to his feet as well, a little out of breath. “I have a personal responsibility, now more than ever. If I expose myself after publication, this book will have even more of an impact.”

“Or people will disregard it as the work of a lunatic animal,” Grantaire snapped.

“I’ll wait and see whether it would have a positive or negative effect,” Enjolras huffed, his cheeks flushing. “But I’m writing it either way. I’ll never have a better chance. And you could help me.”

“Or I could stay alive?” Grantaire’s fingers were twitching, his whole body tense. “You know, that thing I’ve been struggling to do for almost my entire life? I could not put myself in the firing line, maybe?”

“The…what?” Enjolras seemed to deflate, confusion replacing anger. “What’s a firing line?”

Grantaire couldn’t keep his own temper up, and he sank back down into the armchair. “It’s a Muggle expression. Do you know what guns are?”

“Oh.” Enjolras sat down as well. “Yes, I’ve seen pictures.”

“Well, when you shoot one, it’s called firing. You fire a gun, you see? And people used to be executed by a firing squad, which is a bunch of soldiers with a gun each. And they line up and fire at the same time, and kill you.”

Enjolras wrinkled his nose, looking faintly disgusted. “So they don’t know which one of them was the real murderer, I assume.” Grantaire half expected him to make a comment on the barbarity of Muggles, but Enjolras shook his head and muttered, “Cowardly,” instead. Of course, Grantaire remembered: Enjolras had written frequently in his book against anti-Muggle prejudices.

There was a moment of silence, and then Enjolras sighed. “I’m writing this whether you think it’s a good idea or not. I’ll…understand, if you don’t want to hear anything more about it, but I want to ask one last time if you’ll consider contributing. You’d be completely anonymous,” he added, possibly sensing an opportunity when Grantaire didn’t reject him right away. “I know what I’m doing. I protect my sources.”

“It’s dangerous,” Grantaire muttered, and saw Enjolras shrug out of the corner of his eye.

“Everything is dangerous. Leaving your home is dangerous. Living the way you apparently do is dangerous – wouldn’t you rather do something about it than live in fear?”

Grantaire was silent, eyes falling closed.

“Please.”

That twist in his heart again, and he winced. Had Enjolras already guessed how difficult Grantaire found it to say no to a plea?

“Please,” Enjolras said again, leaning forward. “I know it isn’t fair to ask for more when you’ve already helped so much, but I can’t do this on my own. Even if I can find other werewolves easily now –”

“What?” Grantaire jerked his head up, eyes wide.

Enjolras stared back. “Well…it’s going to be a lot easier finding sources now I can identify other werewolves on sight,” he said slowly, and Grantaire was already shaking his head.

“You can’t, you can’t do that, what…” He swallowed, Enjolras’ gaze demanding answers. “You can’t just expect that to work, are you mad? Just because you have something in common with someone, doesn’t mean they’re trustworthy.”

“I trust you,” Enjolras said simply, completely unaware that he’d just ripped a metaphorical rug out from under Grantaire’s feet, bringing him crashing to his knees.

His breath caught in his chest; he had to look down again or choke.

“I need y–”

“ _Stop_.”

Enjolras did, mercifully, and Grantaire ducked his head and pushed both his hands through his hair, fingernails scraping through the tangles. He’d heard Bossuet and Joly and some of the others talk admiringly about Enjolras’ ability to charm information out of anyone he set his sights on, but he’d never seen it in action. He doubted it would have helped even if he had – what force on Earth could shield him against Enjolras murmuring words like  _trust_  and  _need?_

Enjolras was going to do this whether Grantaire helped him or not. And if his ideas for finding other sources of information were limited to sitting in public places and just waiting for another werewolf to walk past his line of sight, it was clear he couldn’t be left alone to do it. If Grantaire could somehow instil in him just a fraction of his own wariness and caution, it might keep him alive.

It was the height of arrogance to think that his influence could have such an effect on someone like Enjolras, but it looked like that was the way the dice had fallen. All he could do now was play.

“I have conditions,” he grated out at last, not missing the way Enjolras drew in a quick breath.

“Of course, whatever you need.”

“You pay your sources, yes?” He lifted his head enough to glance at Enjolras, who was smiling.

“Yes, for each interview.”

“How long is an interview?”

Enjolras lifted a shoulder. “An hour or so.”

Grantaire nodded, heart skipping a beat. “Five galleons an interview.” It was a ridiculously steep price, but Enjolras nodded.

“Done. What else?”

It took Grantaire a second to recover enough to say, “Next condition – I have final say on everything you put in this book.”

“You get final say on everything that’s come from you,” Enjolras said firmly. “The rest is either mine or comes from other sources.”

That was fair, Grantaire decided grudgingly. “Fine. If I’m discovered, you pay me extra so I can run for it.”

“A compensation purse?” Enjolras raised his eyebrows, but nodded. “How much?”

Grantaire hesitated, trying to think. Portkeys were expensive, especially if you needed them made quickly and safely. “Thirty galleons,” he blurted, hoping he hadn’t asked for too much. But Enjolras nodded.

“That’s fair. Anything else?”

“Yes.” Grantaire sat up straighter, trying to sound authoritative. “You trust me on all the survival advice I give you. If I say not to do something, or say it’s stupid or reckless, don’t go ahead and do it anyway.”

Enjolras held his gaze to the point where Grantaire’s toes were curling in his shoes, feeling more pinned by the second. But finally, Enjolras nodded. “I’ll likely demand an explanation though,” he warned Grantaire. “I’m not the type to take someone blindly at their word.”

“Well.” Grantaire cleared his throat and made an aborted gesture towards Enjolras’ hands. “If we’re doing this, you get to ask as many questions as you like, don’t you?”

“Within reason. And you’re allowed to refuse to answer, of course.” Enjolras’ fingers smoothed the edges of the blanket that fell from his shoulders to his knees. “And you’re allowed to take breaks and come back to questions I ask later. The nature of the topic means that a lot of this will probably get personal.”

“What do you mean?” Grantaire frowned, leaning away.

“Your answers and advice will be based on your experiences,” Enjolras said, lifting his shoulder again. “Those tend to be personal.”

“Oh.” Obviously. Grantaire looked down, his neck prickling. “Right, yeah.”

“We could begin now, if you like?” Enjolras offered, but Grantaire pushed himself up, shaking his head.

“I should go. And we…I shouldn’t come back here again, I don’t want to be regular.”

Enjolras frowned, but nodded, getting to his feet as well. “I understand. I have an office at work, if you’d prefer?”

Grantaire shook his head again, quick and sharp. “No, definitely not. Look…” A short breath, his palms sweating in his pockets. “Do you ever go into Muggle Paris?”

Enjolras blinked. “No. But you’re right; it certainly lowers the risk of being overheard.”

“And if we are, no one will care,” Grantaire told him. “They’ll think we’re crazy or rehearsing a play or something. Do you know any landmarks I could meet you at? The Eiffel Tower?”

“I can find that.” Enjolras smiled. “When? Tomorrow?”

When Enjolras could barely stand without losing his breath today? Grantaire snorted. “Monday. Midday – under the tower?”

Enjolras nodded, something that might have been triumph glinting in his eyes. “I’ll be there.”

“Alright. I’ll…see you there then, I suppose.” Grantaire backed away, turning to avoid looking directly at Enjolras’ smile.

“Thank you, Aire.”

“Bring the money,” Grantaire muttered. He didn’t look back as he took long steps to the door, the walls of Enjolras’ apartment suddenly far too small, the ceiling too low, the air too close. If Enjolras replied, he didn’t hear it, pulling the door shut behind him and making for the stairwell. It was a relief to burst out into the street, the sky stretching away into blessed infinity above him.

It struck him as he made his way back to his apartment (with many pauses on benches and against street corners on the way), that this would be the first real job he’d ever had.

 

Grantaire arrived late to the Eiffel Tower on Monday. He’d overslept, leaving himself no time to do more than splash water on his face and tie back his hair before hurrying out. He’d known last night that it was a stupid idea to drink as much as he had, but his nerves had been stretched to breaking point since he’d left Enjolras’ last week. He hadn’t dared return to the Corinthe yet, too occupied with thoughts of today’s interview.

What sort of questions would Enjolras ask? How much could he get away with not saying, while still making sure he’d be paid? Five galleons for an hour’s interview had seemed like such a triumph when he’d agreed to it, but now he was tense all over, his shoulders aching from it. Would he have to tell Enjolras about his family? About the other werewolves he’d met? He wouldn’t tell him about Sachsenwald. He couldn’t.

He realised the second he saw Enjolras under the tower that he’d miscalculated in asking him to meet in Muggle Paris. It was easy to spot him – Enjolras was dressed like a fool. Grantaire registered the little snickers and sideways looks as he hurried through the loose crowd, weak sunlight filtering through the gaps of the gigantic iron structure above them to illuminate an Enjolras who had clearly made an effort to blend in, but had no idea what Muggles wore in the twenty-first century.

He was still wearing a cloak, for one thing, and underneath it he wore what was unmistakeably a Muggle  _dress_  and what were either tights or leggings. His boots went almost up to his knees, and Grantaire resolutely dragged his eyes away from the sight of Enjolras’ calves and thighs on display for the world to see. Enjolras’ relieved smile faded into a grimace when he saw Grantaire’s expression.

“I didn’t know what Muggles wore,” he began, and stopped when Grantaire grabbed his arm and tugged him forward. He let go a second later as though burned, his face scorching. He was sure he could hear people around them muttering, and he shoved his hand in his pocket to grip the handle of his wand, though he couldn’t draw it here without bringing down the Ministry in full force.

“Shut up,” he bit out. “Fucking hell, what on earth are you wearing?”

Enjolras hurried to keep up with him as Grantaire strode out from under the Eiffel Tower, trying to remember where the nearest department store was. “I wasn’t sure what to wear. I knew robes wouldn’t be appropriate, but – can you slow down, please? Running is only going to attract more attention.”

Grantaire forced himself to shorten his stride. Enjolras was right. He glanced at him and let out an embarrassingly shaky breath. “Don’t you know any Muggle-borns who could’ve helped you out?”

“And told them what when they asked why I needed to go to Muggle Paris?” Enjolras asked, arching an eyebrow. “I didn’t think I would stand out as much as I do.”

“You do,” Grantaire said shortly, looking away again. “You look like a…you need new clothes. You can’t walk around looking like that.” He didn’t know how Enjolras could act so normal while wearing a dress that barely covered him – up close it was even worse, the neckline showing off Enjolras’ collarbones, the hem only falling halfway down his thighs. It was tight too, in keeping with Muggle fashion, and Grantaire could feel his cheeks burning even though he wasn’t looking anymore.

“I don’t have any Muggle money,” Enjolras muttered, edging closer as they skirted around a group of girls, most of whom stared at Enjolras and burst into explosive giggles as soon as he’d passed them.

“I do. You can pay me back.” Anything to stop people staring. As if being near Enjolras didn’t put him on edge enough as it was. Grantaire shuddered and pulled Enjolras into a shop. “Come on. You need some trousers.”

Enjolras made a sort of huffing sound, but didn’t protest. Grantaire led him into the men’s section and nodded at a rack of dark trousers. “Find a pair that fits you.”

“How will I know if they fit me?” Enjolras asked doubtfully, running his fingertips along the material.

“Do you know your waist size?” Enjolras shook his head. “You’ll have to guess then.” Of course – most wizards had their robes fitted for them. There weren’t any department stores in La Cour de la Sorcellerie.

Enjolras looked very displeased with the purchases (one pair of trousers, a long-sleeved top, a belt, and a jumper), and kept his…tights, or hose, or whatever they were on underneath the trousers when he changed, but when they emerged back onto the street no one looked twice at him. His cloak and dress went in the carrier bag the shop had given him.

Grantaire sighed in relief and jerked his head, indicating for Enjolras to follow him. “Much better.”

“My cloak is much warmer than this,” Enjolras muttered.

“Your cloak made you look like a circus performer,” Grantaire shot back. “The whole point of meeting here is to be less conspicuous.”

“I know.” Enjolras frowned. “Was that what you were going to say before? That I looked like a circus performer?”

Grantaire hesitated, and that was clearly answer enough. Enjolras fixed him with a narrow-eyed look. “What else did I look like then?”

Grantaire scowled at the ground. “Like a poof. Muggles are funny about it, forget about it.”

“What’s –”

“A man who likes other men. Forget about it.” Hopefully his blotchy cheeks could be put down to the cold breeze. Grantaire allowed himself to relax a fraction when Enjolras didn’t say anything for a moment, then winced when he spoke again.

“Muggles take issue with that?”

“Most of them, yeah. Wizards do too, don’t they?” he added, suddenly uncertain. He’d never seen any wizards in la Cour holding hands, or witches for that matter. “Some of them, anyway,” he amended, remembering Joly and Bossuet. Though he’d always assumed they were more of an exception, since they also had Musichetta.

“Not most though.” Enjolras frowned. “Only those fixated on continuing bloodlines. Are you Muggle-born? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Grantaire shook his head, a lie jumping to his tongue before he remembered that Enjolras knew his secret. He paused, acclimatising to that for a moment before speaking. “I don’t mix with magical folk often. There’s a lot I don’t know.”

“You’ve never given that impression before,” Enjolras said, sounding curious.

“I’m good at faking it.” Grantaire paused at a crossing, his heart jumping into his throat when Enjolras continued on, stepping blithely out into the road. Grantaire yanked him backwards by the neck of his jumper as a car zipped around the corner, two more following it. “Cars,” he snapped, too shocked to be quiet. “Don’t just walk out into the road, what’s wrong with you?”

Enjolras nodded, his chest rising and falling quickly below his new clothes. “Sorry. They go much faster than…than I expected.”

“And they hit hard too.” Grantaire released him, frowning down at the pavement. “You need to look before you cross a road.” His heart was still pounding. What would he have done if Enjolras had been hit?

“Has one ever hit you?”

Grantaire shook his head. “Because I look where I’m going.”

“It’s just new to me.”

Grantaire satisfied himself with a nod, fighting the urge to take hold of Enjolras’ wrist, keeping him close so he wouldn’t do anything stupid or get into trouble. “Haven’t you ever been out here before?” he asked, pitching his voice low so the surrounding Muggles wouldn’t pay attention.

“No. I meant to – I’ve always meant to, but I’ve never found the time. And there’s never been a good reason before now. I should thank you, really, for giving me the excuse to finally do it.” If Enjolras was mocking him, Grantaire couldn’t tell. He kept his eyes forward anyway.

“You’re welcome, I suppose.”

Enjolras nodded, and once they were on the other side of the road, he asked, “Do you have anywhere in mind for us to go? I was hoping to take notes.”

Grantaire’s eyes twitched, but he nodded and turned left at the next opportunity. There were plenty of green spaces around the Champ de Mars, and the closest was the Esplanade des Invalides. It was dry enough that they could sit on the grass and not be overheard by anyone.

As they walked, Grantaire sneaked looks at Enjolras. The Muggle clothes didn’t suit him. His long hair, tied in a tail at the base of his neck, was too bright against the dark jumper, his slim neck unprotected by the collar or hood of a cloak. He looked more vulnerable, somehow, with all the lines of his body on display like this.

“What sort of questions are you going to ask?” he asked, trying to distract himself.

“All sorts. I’d rather wait to tell you, if you don’t mind.” He gave Grantaire a small smile. “Till we’re sitting down, and I can write.”

Grantaire nodded, abashed, and they fell back into silence.

The open space of the esplanade was larger than Grantaire remembered, and he led Enjolras over to the trees, seeking shelter and distance from the road. “Ask away,” he said, dropping to the ground to sit. Enjolras lowered himself slower, touching the grass with his palm before he sat down properly.

“Thank you,” he said, pulling a small notebook and a self-inking quill out of his bag. “Before we start, I just want to remind you that you can always refuse to answer a question. It won’t impact your payment or my reporting.” 

So formal. Grantaire waved him on awkwardly. “I know, it’s fine. Ask.” He’d never really understood the phrase ‘sick with nerves’ before now, but it definitely felt like he was one cough away from throwing up.

Enjolras crossed his legs, his back as straight as a wand as he took notebook and quill in hand. “Alright. How old were you when you were bitten?”

Grantaire had to swallow before he could speak, forcing the answer out through his barely-parted lips. “Ten.”

“And how old are you now?”

Grantaire crossed his legs too, hiding his hands in the gap between them. “Twenty-eight.”

“Eighteen years. Roughly…two hundred and sixteen transformations.” At Grantaire’s stare, he shrugged. “Roughly. Over two hundred at least.”

The weight of the numbers settled over Grantaire’s shoulders like a heavy cloak, his head bowing under the knowledge. He’d never counted – why would he have needed to? But hearing Enjolras say it like that was almost chilling. Over two  _hundred_  transformations.

“Are you alright?” Enjolras asked, sounding concerned. Grantaire jerked his head in what might charitably be called a nod.

“Fine. Go on.”

“Very well. I was wondering if you could tell me how it happened.”

“No.” The refusal was out before Grantaire had even gathered his thoughts. He didn’t dare look to see what Enjolras thought of it, but it didn’t matter – Enjolras nodded, and relief swept through Grantaire in a wave so strong it left him dizzy. Enjolras wouldn’t push, as he’d promised. He was allowed to refuse to answer.

“Alright. You said your parents were both magical, so does that mean you grew up in a magical household?”

“Yes.” The admission felt prised from his chest like a weight he hadn’t even known he was carrying.

“So you already knew what werewolves were?”

“Yes.”

“Did you have any preconceptions about them before you were bitten? Any prejudices or general thoughts?”

“Um.” Grantaire frowned, trying to remember. “I don’t know. Nothing special, I don’t think. Just…you know, that they were monsters, that they killed people. I knew The Werewolf of Wambaix?” It had been one of the stories in a book he’d had as a child. Folktales and nursery rhymes for sleepy little wizards, or something like that.

Enjolras nodded in recognition, brows knitting together. “I hate that story.”

“Why?” Grantaire uncrossed his legs and straightened them out in front of him, leaning back on his elbows.

“Why not?” Enjolras stared at him, sounding torn between annoyance and confusion. “Why wouldn’t you? The werewolf is a…a…” Grantaire watched in fascination as his face worked, trying to fix on the right description.

“A monster?” he suggested, and he couldn’t stop his lips twitching at Enjolras’ predictable scowl.

“Stop saying that.”

“It’s the word you were looking for – you just didn’t want to say it. He lures children into the woods so he can eat them. Isn’t that monstrous?”

Enjolras made a visible effort to calm himself. “It’s a biased story. It portrays werewolves as villains by nature.”

“It’s a…” Grantaire waved his hand, squinting. “Not a metaphor. A story that teaches you something. A fable? Parable?”

“A parable,” Enjolras confirmed, lip curling as if agreeing with Grantaire left a bad taste in his mouth. “But for most children – wizarding children, anyway – that’s the only exposure to werewolves we’re given. It’s inaccurate and twisted.”

“It’s sensible,” Grantaire countered, surprised at his own daring. He couldn’t tell whether it was the sunlight or Enjolras’ presence that warmed him. “It’s teaching children a lesson – be careful on a full moon. Watch out for people who could be dangerous.”

“And all werewolves are evil,” Enjolras said, irritated. “And none of them can be trusted.” Grantaire shrugged, the gesture stoking Enjolras’ annoyance. “Don’t you care?”

Grantaire arched an eyebrow. “In the scheme of things, children’s stories aren’t really high on my list of worries.”

“What is?”

Grantaire blinked, but Enjolras hadn’t sounded sarcastic, and his expression had turned curious. “Staying hidden, I suppose,” Grantaire said, hesitant again. “Not letting anyone find out what I am.”

“And then?”

“You mean, the actual list of priorities for me?” Enjolras nodded. A breeze stirred the branches of the tree behind Grantaire, and flashes of light danced across Enjolras’ face, making him narrow his eyes against the sudden glare. Grantaire looked down at the wrinkles in his own shirt. “If we’re going from arrival in a new place, it’s finding somewhere to stay, then finding somewhere to transform. That can take a while, so you should always move on as soon as a full moon’s gone, so you’ll have time to find somewhere new. While you’re looking, you need food, and you need to be as invisible as you can. You don’t want to draw attention to yourself in any way.”

“You sound like you have it all figured out,” Enjolras said slowly.

“I have rules,” Grantaire corrected him. “Stay hidden, transform safely. That comes before everything else. Everything links back to those rules.”

“Do other werewolves you’ve met live by a similar code?” 

Grantaire wrinkled his nose, tilting his head from side to side. “Sometimes. Depends on the person. Depends on lots of things. But obviously everyone needs to stay hidden, whether they want to or not, and to stay hidden you need to have somewhere to transform safely. That’s the hardest part.”

“Tell me.”

Grantaire didn’t even hesitate. Somehow, Enjolras’ first few questions had opened the floodgates, and now he sat up so he could gesture with his hands, more animated than he’d ever allowed himself to be in the Corinthe. Having someone else’s undivided attention was like sweet wine on the brain, making him flushed and eager to please, eager to talk. And for the first time in years, he didn’t have to hold back. For once, he didn’t have to weigh each sentence carefully before speaking, he didn’t have to worry over every implication he might accidentally give. He wasn’t just allowed to speak his mind with Enjolras – he was encouraged to.

So he told Enjolras about Gros’ rules, though he didn’t mention Gros himself. He told Enjolras about moving on every few months, sometimes sooner, to keep the risk of discovery low. There was a routine to it, he explained. First you had to find somewhere near enough to humans that you could get food. Then you had to find shelter, or make it. From there, the search began. Cities had lots of places for a werewolf to transform, but the risk of escape and an encounter with humans was higher because the smell of humans drove a werewolf into a frenzy. Out in the country though, there were fewer safe places to be found.

“I would’ve thought there would be more,” Enjolras frowned, hand stilling on the page of his notebook. “What with all the space.”

“You’d be surprised.” Grantaire grimaced, pulling his hair out of its tie to better scratch the base of his neck. “The problem is that it’s all so open. You need a building or a wood where you’re sure no one will find you. Containment’s easier if you have physical boundaries to spell, same with silencing.”

And in all of this, he warned Enjolras, hunters needed to be considered. It was why he moved on so often, why he avoided wizards, and why he preferred cities to towns or villages: the crowds hid him. Among so many, he was a drop in a river, concealed even better if he lived as a Muggle. Having a safe, secret place to transform was paramount not just for the protection of those who might be bitten or killed if you escaped, but also so that no hunters found you at your most vulnerable. A werewolf who confined themselves properly might turn back in the morning to find themself trapped, naked and helpless.

“Has that…” Enjolras’ face twitched, an expression flitting across it too quickly for Grantaire to interpret. “Of course, that’s never happened to you, has it?”

“No,” he lied. “Thank fuck. But it can.”

“How do you know? Do people ever escape?”

Sweat prickled suddenly under Grantaire’s arms, and he realised that the sun had sunk in the sky enough to cover him up to his chest in warmth. He shifted back into the shadows, looking down at the ground, more dirt than grass this close to the tree trunk. “Sometimes,” he muttered. “Not often.”

“You’ve met people who have?”

Grantaire nodded. “It’s difficult. I don’t…can you ask about something else?” He frowned, not liking how uncomfortable he sounded.

“Of course.” Enjolras rummaged in his carrier bag, searching through the pockets of his cloak. A moment later he withdrew a pocket watch, which he returned to his cloak after checking. “It’s almost been an hour anyway. Would you like to walk back to la Cour?”

Grantaire shook his head even as he got to his feet. “Not today.”

“My office is on the way.” Enjolras smiled as he got up as well. “You could come in, if you like? Everyone else has visited me at some point or another.”

“No, thanks.” Grantaire brushed grass and dirt off his jeans, avoiding Enjolras’ eyes.

“You’ll need this then.” Enjolras dug through the pockets of his cloak again, and Grantaire raised his eyebrows when he drew out a money bag. He’d completely forgotten about the payment, but his breath caught in his chest as Enjolras surreptitiously counted out five galleons and handed them over. Just like that. No ceremony, no fuss – payment for a job done. Grantaire pushed his hand into his pocket, holding the coins tight. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d held money that hadn’t been stolen.

“Thank you,” he managed to say, throat dry.

“Can we meet again this week?” Enjolras asked, oblivious. “I could meet you on Thursday?”

It wasn’t like Grantaire had anything better to do, so he nodded. “Do you know any places in Paris that aren’t the Eiffel Tower?” Enjolras’ sheepish expression gave him his answer, and he sighed. “There again then.”

“Noon?”

Grantaire shook his head, thinking. “Two-thirty.” He would have to show Enjolras more of Paris so that they could meet at different places each time. Even if they changed the time of their meetings, the idea of meeting at the Eiffel Tower for each one seemed risky.

“Alright. I’ll have to wear these again, I suppose.” Enjolras plucked at his new jumper, a wry smile twisting his lips. Grantaire nodded, still clutching the gold in his pocket tight.

“I’ll see you on Thursday.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Enjolras smiled. Floundering, Grantaire managed a brusque nod before he turned away, hurrying along the road and heading north for the Seine. How was he supposed to react in the face of a smile like that?

Enjolras was only another werewolf now, technically, just like those Grantaire had encountered and travelled with before, but he still felt wrong-footed with him. Off-balance, somehow. On edge. It wasn’t just that Enjolras was asking him about things no one had ever asked him about before. It was…something about the force of his attention. Grantaire zipped his jacket up to his chin and frowned, shaking his head in a vain attempt to clear it. What did it matter if Enjolras’ attention unnerved him? He’d been paid well for the trouble. Five galleons was nothing to sniff at.

 

“You’ve never been to school?” Enjolras sounded shocked, and Grantaire scowled.

“Well you’ve never been to the Notre Dame. Everyone’s missing some experiences.”

“But…”

“I was ten,” Grantaire snapped. “Of course I never went to school. They don’t let  _werewolves_  into Beauxbatons.”

Enjolras frowned and fell silent, his notebook and pen falling to his sides. Grantaire had insisted on buying him a Muggle pen rather than let him walk around writing with a quill, self-inking or not. They walked out from the shadow of Notre Dame, Grantaire leading the way to the Pont d’Arcole. He had vague ideas of showing Enjolras as much of Muggle Paris as possible, keeping them on the move as much as he could.

“So…” Enjolras started slowly. “You stayed home instead? You were homeschooled?”

“No.” Grantaire’s lips twitched, imagining it. “I left.”

“You left home?”

“Of course.”

Enjolras was silent, and Grantaire could feel his stare on the side of his head. “At  _ten?_ ” he said, after a long pause.

Grantaire gave him an irritated look. “What else was I supposed to do? I couldn’t stay.”

“Why not?”

“No comment.”

Enjolras sighed, but didn’t push it. “Alright. What about your education then? Did you have a wand when you ran away?”

Grantaire opened his mouth, closed it again, and frowned. “Yes,” he decided eventually. The wand hadn’t been his own, but Enjolras hadn’t asked if that had been the case.

“Did you already know a lot of magic then?”

“Did you know a lot of magic when you were ten?” Grantaire asked dryly, then snorted. “Wait, I bet you did. You were probably the best in your class.”

“Actually, I failed my third year.” Enjolras didn’t sound upset about it. In fact, when Grantaire looked at him, he smiled. “And I didn’t even get a wand until I went to school. I’d never cast a spell before my first lesson.”

“But…” Grantaire frowned. “You’re not Muggle-born, are you?”

“No. It was just the way I was brought up. So I take it you did know some magic when you left home?”

“Yeah.” Grantaire was too surprised to think his reply through. “Not much though, nothing very useful. I knew the right words, but it took a while before I could actually do the spells right.”

“What sort of things did you know?”

“Stuff you pick up round the house. Scourgify, Reparo, Tergeo, Episkey, Lumos…” He waved a hand. “That sort of thing. And kiddy spells, you know – stuff like making ants spell out your name, or engorging slugs.”

“No survival spells,” Enjolras noted, frowning.

“No.” They started out across the bridge, and Grantaire turned his face away to look across the water at the Île Saint-Louis, pushing his hands deeper into his pockets as a cold wind pulled at his hair. He tried to think about what he would say when Enjolras inevitably asked how he’d managed to last from age ten to twenty-eight.

“What magic do you know now then?”

Grantaire looked around and blinked at him. Enjolras only returned his stare with a small smile, as if pleased he’d managed to surprise him. Grantaire looked away quickly. “More than I used to.”

“Well I’d hope so,” Enjolras said, dropping back for a moment to let a woman with a pushchair pass them, bumping their elbows as he drew level again. “But what sort of magic?”

“Well…survival stuff,” Grantaire said slowly, hunching his shoulders against another frigid gust of wind. “Obviously. I can clear a place of vermin, make it waterproof, start a fire, clean water, that sort of thing.”

“Can you catch your own food?” Enjolras asked curiously, and Grantaire wrinkled his nose.

“I can,” he said, guarded. “I don’t really like it though.” Skipping over the numerous spells he knew that assisted in his criminal activities, he went on. “I know a lot of attack and defence spells. Just to be safe, you see?”

“Like what?”

Grantaire shrugged. “Protego, Stupefy, Imobulus, Caesara –”

“Caesara? I don’t know that one.”

“Cutting curse. To cut someone down – it’s like a knife, you’re meant to aim it at the legs.” Enjolras was taken aback, Grantaire could tell. “It’s got practical applications as well,” he added, defensive for a reason he couldn’t put his finger on. “You can use it to cut wood.”

“Did you learn it to cut wood?” Enjolras asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Not…exactly.” Grantaire narrowed his eyes, but Enjolras only smiled back at him, and Grantaire had to look away again, skin prickling. “It’s just in case.”

“Have you used it before?”

“No comment.” He tensed to prevent a shiver, keeping an eye on Enjolras as they crossed the road.

“So would you say you specialise in survival and duelling magic then?” Enjolras asked when they reached the other side, looking up in interest at the fountain in front of them.

“I suppose so. This is the Place de l’Hôtel-de-Ville,” he added. “Would you be able to find it for another time we see each other?”

“Oh.” Enjolras frowned, and Grantaire hastened to reassure him, realising what it had sounded like.

“I’m not leaving now – I’m just showing you some options for meeting places.”

“Oh.” Enjolras’ expression cleared, and he smiled. “Yes, then. This looks good.”

“Good,” Grantaire echoed, leading the way past the picnic benches. “That’s the métro,” he said, noticing the interested look Enjolras gave to the stairs heading below the level of the street. “You know Paris has trains underground?”

“I knew, but I’ve never seen them.” Enjolras’ smile grew. “I’d like to, one day. They are safe, aren’t they?”

“Safer than brooms, in my opinion.”

“Have you ever flown on a broom?” Enjolras asked, suddenly curious. “If you’ve never been to school…”

“I had a toy one,” Grantaire found himself saying. “When I was little. That’s all though. What about you?”

“I flew a bit at school, but not since.”

“You didn’t play Quidditch?” Grantaire smiled, then grinned when Enjolras laughed.

“Definitely not. That was Courfeyrac – he was a brilliant chaser. Team captain, too.”

“For the school?”

“No,” Enjolras laughed again. “For his house.”

“House?”

“Beauxbatons has six houses students are put into for things like Quidditch matches and other competitions,” Enjolras explained. “Courfeyrac was in Vallair. All the houses are named after famous European witches and wizards.”

“What are the others?” Grantaire asked quietly. Something in him had woken up at the hint of further information about Beauxbatons. Gros had never spoken about it, snapping ferociously if Grantaire tried to ask, but Enjolras didn’t seem to mind.

“I was in le Fay,” Enjolras said, pursing his lips. “So, le Fay, Vallair, Carazaco, Maugris…Wittvogel, and Flamel.”

“Who decides who goes in each house?”

Enjolras shrugged. “I think it’s random. We were just told at the beginning of the year, before we took the entrance exams.”

“You have to pass an exam to get in?”

“No, the exam is to test your abilities. Things like reading and writing, so if you need extra help, you’ll be given it.”

“Did you need it?” It only occurred to Grantaire after he’d already asked it that the question might have been rude, but Enjolras just shook his head.

“No, it was just magic I didn’t know anything about, and that’s the same for most students when they start. The exam checks your French comprehension as well – Beauxbatons takes students from several countries, so they need to know at least some French before they start.”

Grantaire wasn’t even thinking about where they were going anymore, just following the road they were on as he tried to pick one question from the dozens he wanted to ask. “Do you take the exam straight away? As soon as you arrive?”

“Oh! No, you’re sent the exam by owl, so they can organise timetables and dormitories before everyone arrives.” Enjolras smiled at him, and Grantaire tried to school his expression, not wanting to look too eager for more.

“What does happen when you go then? How do you get there?”

“Your parents take you whichever way they like. Mine took me by Floo, but some Apparate, or use Portkeys. First-years are supposed to arrive in the morning, so there’s time for them to be registered and put into dorms.”

“How’s that sorted? By house?”

“No, randomly again, I think. And you can rearrange it once you make friends, so everyone tends to move around by the second year or so.”

 _Once you make friends_. Grantaire couldn’t even imagine it, being eleven and going to Beauxbatons, dropped off by his parents and assigned a place in a dorm with however many other boys. It wouldn’t matter how many questions he asked, or how well Enjolras described it: he would never experience it for himself. Not ever. And like pressing a bruise, he couldn’t help asking for more. “What did you learn?” He took a left, pretending he knew where they were going.

“All sorts.” Enjolras considered it for a moment. “We had plenty of subjects. Potions, Charms, Transfiguration, MAC –”

“MAC?”

“Magical Artifice and Creation. The further on you take it, the more you narrow your field of study. Feuilly did art, obviously. I was more interested in magical objects; things like Pensieves and Portkeys, how they work and how they were first invented and all that.”

Grantaire had never even thought about who made things like that. “Did you ever make anything of your own?” After a second of embarrassed silence, he added, “What’s a Pensieve?”

“A Pensieve is a magical receptacle for the user’s thoughts and memories. You can extract them from your brain and examine them at leisure – they’re rare, and very difficult to make. I never made anything.” Enjolras smiled slightly. “You have to take further specialised study to make objects as powerful as that. There was the option to present ideas to a committee of potential investors at the end of the course, but almost no one did it.”

There were more subjects, and Grantaire grew dizzy with the growing realisation that there was so  _much_  he didn’t know. It was as if he’d looked down for the first time on a long walk and realised he stood on a narrow plank with a gaping chasm below him, empty space on either side. They paused by another fountain, Enjolras smiling at the sound of the water. “There are fountains like this at Beauxbatons,” he told Grantaire. “The grounds are beautiful, but the gardens were always my favourite. I hated being forced to stay inside if it was a good day to go out. Where are we?” he added, looking around for a sign. “This is another place we could meet.”

Grantaire shrugged, caught out. “It’s on the Rue Saint-Denis? You could find it that way, maybe?”

“Maybe.” Enjolras didn’t look away from the fountain, clear water cascading down soft golden steps from the inside of a tall, stately arch on top. “Would you say your magical education is lacking?”

Grantaire almost stepped away, the question hitting like a physical blow. “It depends,” he managed to say after a moment, his voice miraculously steady. “I get by as I am, well enough. But I’d probably fail all these exams you talk about.”

“Do you ever use Transfiguration?” Enjolras asked, still not looking at him. It was easier without those eyes on him, and Grantaire cleared his throat.

“No. What would I use it for?”

“Well, what if you needed something like…a cup, say, but you didn’t have one to hand? I’ve always thought it’s one of the most useful subjects.”

“Difficult though, isn’t it?” Grantaire’s lips twisted.

“So’s duelling.” Enjolras gave him a sideways glance, then looked forward again. “What about potions? Do you ever…?”

“No. Too much I’d need, for a start.”

“Mmm. Do you know any frivolous spells at all?”

“Like what?”

“Like…beauty spells, prank spells, that sort of thing.”

“Not that I can think of.” Grantaire frowned.

“Would you be interested in learning any?”

“Does it matter?” Grantaire fought back a flash of sudden anger. “What would be the point of learning something useless? The only way I can see prank spells as having a point is to distract someone so I could get away without being seen, and the only reason I’d have to use beauty spells would be to disguise myself. If I can’t use it to hide or defend myself, there’s no point in knowing it.” 

“That’s a very bleak outlook.”

“Welcome to my life.” Grantaire tore his eyes away from Enjolras and started walking, hands balled into fists in his jacket pockets. Let Enjolras decide whether to follow or not.

Of course he did follow. For a minute or so they walked in silence, Enjolras obviously giving Grantaire the time to calm down. He wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or resentful for the consideration, but either way he didn’t feel the urge to snap when Enjolras spoke again. “Are there any spells you think I should know?” he asked, as bland as if he was asking Grantaire’s opinion on the weather.

Grantaire thought about it, sifting through the various spells he used regularly. “Protection stuff, I guess. I have wards up on my…on the place where I stay.” It probably wasn’t giving much away to say apartment, but it never hurt to be careful. “Anti-stranger spells, that sort of thing. You don’t need Muggle-repellents, living where you do, and I don’t know what else you could do. There’s nothing you can do about people knowing where you live and work, but as long as no one finds out what you are, it should be alright.” He hoped so, anyway. “Has it been an hour?”

“I think so.” If Enjolras minded him calling an end to the interview, he didn’t show it, just brought out his money bag and handed over five galleons. “Is there anywhere private around here I could Apparate from?”

Grantaire motioned for him to follow. “There was a sign for some toilets back here, you could use those.”

“Thank you. Can you Apparate?” Enjolras added, the thought obviously just occurring to him. Grantaire shook his head.

“No one I’ve met wanted to teach me.”

“Why not?”

“Something about not being able to reattach limbs left behind.” Grantaire gave him an amused look over his shoulder. “It sounded too dangerous to try on my own, so I’ve never learned. Don’t put that in your book,” he said quickly.

“No one would know it was you,” Enjolras reminded him.

“Still.”

Enjolras shrugged. “As you wish.”

“Thanks.”

He stood guard outside the toilets while Enjolras went in, waiting for the tell-tale pop before walking away, heading back to the fountain that had so captured Enjolras’ attention. He couldn’t stop thinking about Beauxbatons, and Gros, who had said once that it was sometimes better not to know what you were missing.

He hadn’t let himself imagine what his life would be like if he hadn’t been bitten for a long time. Years, maybe. But with all the things he knew now, he couldn’t help imagining it. In his mind, he pictured the palace Enjolras had described as something like the Château de Pierrefonds, which he’d once stayed near for a few months, unwilling to leave such a beautiful place behind. White towers that gleamed in the sun, he imagined, but many more of them, and up in the mountains rather than surrounded by forests.

Would he have been happy there? Would he have made friends? Perhaps he would have won prizes, played Quidditch for his house team, explored the palace, sneaked away from study sessions to hide in the luxurious gardens the way Enjolras had.

The fountain on the Rue Saint-Denis was a Muggle creation, and Grantaire scowled at all its flaws as he approached it again, unable to ignore the watermarks on the stone, the green tinge at the edges of the pool at the base. The fountains at Beauxbatons would be far more beautiful, kept in immaculate condition with magic, the water sparkling like liquid diamonds in the mountain air.

He couldn’t look at the damn thing a moment longer. He turned away and chose a road at random, swallowing around the lump in his throat and scowling down at the pavement. Gros had been right, he saw now. It had been a kindness to refuse him any details of the education he’d been denied.

 

Not until that evening did Grantaire realise the trick Enjolras had played on him by leaving without arranging a date for their next interview. He had no doubt that it was an intentional move, designed to draw him back to the Corinthe. He hadn’t been back since he’d realised Enjolras was a werewolf, and he snarled in frustration when he realised that he would either have to return, or take the riskier course of action and go to Enjolras’ apartment.

He knew that hunters would watch a werewolf for weeks if they thought there was a chance it would lead to another catch, and if he was being watched, it would be far less suspicious to return to a public place than a private dwelling.

Grantaire growled and kicked his chair over, glaring at the mess he’d made in his apartment. It was a hovel, but he could never bring himself to do anything about it. The surfaces were greasy, the floor covered in crumbs and hair, and dirty clothes were strewn over his furniture. He was fairly sure there was more mould than china in the sink now, the mound of washing up that needed to be done too high to even look at. Every time it depressed him, he left. Which ultimately meant that he spent very little time in his apartment, and what time he did spend there was usually in bed.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d changed the sheets.

He went out on Saturday with the idea of going to the Corinthe, but bottled it before even getting across the Seine. He ate out instead, polishing off two bottles of wine by himself and staggering home, away from the amused, pitying looks of the waiters.

On Sunday, he faired better. This time, he actually made it to la Cour before turning back, pretending he’d only come to buy a bottle of firewhisky. At least Enjolras’ money meant he could afford wizard booze again, a rare treat to be savoured and saved up. In theory, anyway.

Monday was lost to the resulting hangover, and after that Grantaire found himself trapped in his apartment as surely as if there had been bars on the windows. He slept most of the week away, turning his thoughts away from Enjolras like someone yanking their fingers back from a hot stove, brushing against the subject by accident and flinching back every time it happened. It was easier to sleep, easier to lose himself to dreams he couldn’t remember, and nightmares that were so familiar that he didn’t even need to get up to shake their cobwebs from his mind when they occurred. He just lay in bed until his exhaustion caught up with him and he drifted off again.

It was strange, the way doing nothing could be so tiring. All he had to do was open his eyes and look around for the urge to sleep to return, dragging him under again. It wasn’t like the sight of his filthy apartment was inspiring, after all.

In the end, he had to leave, forced out by hunger to the bakery at the end of his street. He bought bread and pastries and opened the windows when he got back to his apartment, rationalising that if he was cold, he’d feel more awake.

It was disappointing when all it did was make him shiver, even less inclined to leave than usual. His usual habit was to walk the city all day to stay out of his apartment, but every now and then these grey moods would come, smothering him into bleak inactivity. Days and days of it. Even the arrival of his landlord to collect the rent did nothing to drag him out of the fog, though luckily he looked ill enough that the man gave him an extension on the rest of the money, since he was clearly unfit for work at the moment, and he’d never missed a payment before.

Illness of the brain spread as the full moon approached and became illness of the body. He had an excuse now for staying in, but that wasn’t much of a comfort come Thursday with the moon a hair away from fullness, his bones aching every time he so much as twitched. It wasn’t normally this bad, but right now he was  _dying_ , muffling groans and gasps of pain into his mattress as his joints flared hot and swelled up, knees preparing to twist backwards in their sockets, spine getting ready to grow an extra part. He’d used up all his degoire extract, hands shaking as he rubbed it into his skin, and he’d already drunk all his firewhisky.

He had to get moving soon, he knew. He’d chosen this building because of its out-of-bounds cellar, sneaking in to check it would suit him before taking the apartment. He’d put extra spells on the door and protective wards on the room he locked himself in each month, and although he renewed them regularly, the proximity to the Muggles all around him still made him anxious. But there was nothing to be done – if he was transforming in a city, he would always be too close to humans.

He waited till late that night before going down, bringing what was left of his alcohol and a blanket. He was already half drunk, but he managed to stagger into the cellar and bar the door with magic before heading for the tiny room he supposed might have once been a pantry. No more than two steps from wall to wall, it was easy to put silencers on. He left his clothes outside and locked himself in, wrapped in the blanket. It wasn’t a long wait.

He finished the vodka and tucked the bottle in a hole in the wall where he’d stashed his wand, since it wouldn’t do for either of them to get broken. Nauseated, shivering and sweating by turns, he almost laughed in relief when he finally felt the change begin. The laughter died before it was fully formed, turning into a scream. Oh, it didn’t last long, that was true, but that hardly mattered when every second was agony. The only thing that surpassed it was the Cruciatus Curse.

The pitch black room tilted as he shuddered on the ground, and his last conscious thought was of Enjolras – he hoped he hadn’t had such a horrible lead-up to his second transformation.

 

Grantaire woke up with a start, so cold he could hardly move. “Lumos,” he croaked, and winced as his wand lit up the tiny room from its place in the wall. He stayed where he was for a minute, eyes closed as his mind caught up with him. It was always uncomfortable to remember the time he’d spent as an animal, memory rushing in to fill a yawning gap. He’d thrown himself against the walls a lot this time, and his shoulders and back were feeling it. No new self-inflicted bites and scratches that he could feel or remember, so that was a plus. And he was exactly where he’d put himself. Still safe, still secret, still in possession of his wand.

And for once, the change seemed to have invigorated him. At the very least, it had burned the remains of the alcohol out of his system, taking what would have been an extremely brutal hangover and regulating it to a headache. Granted, that headache came with the assorted pains of having just transformed twice in under twenty-four hours, but Grantaire was inclined to positivity this morning, for some reason.

He could stand, so he did so, pulling the blanket from the floor and dragging it around his shoulders. His hand shook as he took up his wand and started dismantling the charms he’d locked himself in with, his skull pounding at the strain. His ankles and knees ached fiercely, and he staggered as he stepped out of the pantry, leaning against the wall so he wouldn’t fall over. It took a long time to get dressed, and as he did, positivity was replaced by worry.

Was Enjolras alright? What if one of his friends had gotten cold feet at harbouring and aiding an illegal beast and had gone to the Ministry? What if Enjolras was being apprehended at this very moment, imprisoned at his weakest and being made ready for transport to Verecasat, the magical prison in the Alps? And on the way, there would be plenty of opportunities for the Ministry officials to take care of the problem, perhaps by ‘letting’ Enjolras escape and killing him as he ran.

Logical thought made a valiant effort to calm him down as he made his way laboriously upstairs, back to his apartment. He hadn’t worried like this last month. But he was still afraid, for Enjolras and for himself. Really, he lived his whole life in varying degrees of fear, exhausting himself by just trying to stay alive. It wasn’t like that for other wizards, he was sure of it. Enjolras’ friends didn’t have to live like this, and Enjolras hadn’t needed to before he’d been bitten.

The injustice of it made Grantaire want to scream, and when he got into his apartment he threw the blanket to the ground in fury. The fact that he barely had the strength to stumble to his bed now that he’d hauled himself up several flights of stairs just made him angrier. Everything hurt, and it wasn’t  _fair_. Why should Enjolras have to go through this, when all he’d wanted to do was help werewolves? Where was the right in that?

And he still wanted to help. Grantaire’s anger died as he collapsed into bed, shivering. Enjolras hadn’t succumbed to despair or doubt. He was still fighting, still insisting that the world would change if he gave it the chance, if he persuaded it to do so.

Would his spirit be able to keep it up? It was easy to be optimistic when your life wasn’t a burden, but Enjolras was a werewolf now. Would his enthusiasm flag as a result? Would he become the listless, pathetic creature Grantaire felt like now? Just the idea of it made him feel worse than ever. Enjolras was so intense, so brilliant and bright that Grantaire couldn’t even imagine him broken. But no matter what, Enjolras would be a werewolf now until he died. And that sort of burden took its toll, even on wizards as strong as Enjolras.

He would go back to la Cour, Grantaire decided. He would return to the Corinthe and help Enjolras with his book. Perhaps it would do some good, and in any case, he needed to go to Gringotts to exchange his galleons for francs to pay the rest of this month’s rent.

He didn’t realise until he was almost asleep that this was the first time he’d thought of Enjolras for weeks without his mind flinching away.

 

Embarrassingly, there was a small cheer when he was spotted in the doorway of the Corinthe the week after the full moon, and he was dragged to Bahorel’s table and interrogated by people he hadn’t expected to really notice he’d been gone at all. Joly bought him a drink, Feuilly clapped his shoulder, and Floreal demanded explanations.

“My grandparents,” Grantaire muttered, a bewildered smile on his lips. “They were ill, both of them, and then they passed it to me, so…”

“It’s good you’re back at any rate.” Musichetta beamed and ruffled his hair, making him go still at the sudden contact. “We had all sorts of theories – you need to tell us more about yourself! We would’ve checked in on you if we knew where you lived!”

“You only would’ve ended up getting sick too,” Grantaire protested, half hoping she’d touch his hair again. “Besides,” he added, “I want to keep my air of mystery. Especially if it keeps getting me free drinks.”

As the crush around him died down a bit, he caught a glimpse of Enjolras at the back of the room, bracketed either side by his faithful lieutenants. He would have to find a way of speaking to him privately at some point, but for now he was more than happy to ask the others what they’d been up to since he’d last seen them. He’d never had anyone to ask after like this, and he found he was rather enjoying it. In fact, he felt better than he had in weeks. The Corinthe was warm, the wine was good, the people were cheerful, and they were conducting him up to their level as though he was a friend of theirs, not merely a familiar face.

He didn’t leave till after midnight, having watched Enjolras more and more as the night went on and realising that they were both waiting for the other to make the first move. Since Grantaire had further to walk, and was full to brimming with borrowed confidence and wine, he stood first, and left the Corinthe without looking back.

Enjolras caught up with him a minute later, as he was walking slowly towards the east exit of la Cour. “Aire!”

“Enjolras.” It was easy to smile at him, though he had to stop it from growing when Enjolras smiled back.

“Took you long enough. I thought you might’ve given up on me.”

“I could never.” It was too honest, and Grantaire shook his head and hurried on. “You want another interview, I assume?”

“I would. I could meet you at that fountain tomorrow?”

“What time?”

“Nine?”

Grantaire recoiled. “I try my best not to be up that early. Noon?”

“If you insist.” Enjolras didn’t look annoyed though, just triumphant. It was a good look on him. “I’ll see you there then.”

Grantaire nodded and left without another word, suddenly tongue-tied. Hopefully the amount of wine he’d consumed would deepen his sleep and keep any lurking nightmares at bay.

 

Grantaire couldn’t decide whether to laugh or roll his eyes when he saw Enjolras the next day. Early March was hardly a time for dry weather, and it had been pouring with rain since that morning. While Grantaire had an umbrella, Enjolras hadn’t even bothered trying to hide under a shop awning. He was sat on the rim of the fountain, drenched from head to foot.

Grantaire came up behind him and bit back a smile when Enjolras looked up in surprise as the umbrella suddenly shielded him from the rain. “You’re an idiot.”

“It’s only a bit of water,” Enjolras said, standing up and turning to face him. Grantaire hefted the umbrella higher to compensate for Enjolras’ height and snorted, jerking his head in the direction they’d be walking.

“More than a bit, I’d say.”

“I’m fine.” Enjolras took the umbrella from him and lifted it higher still, walking so close their shoulders brushed. “I’ll dry myself out later.”

“You can do it now, in there.” Grantaire decided not to contest the umbrella thievery and pointed ahead to a café, its lights glowing in the day’s dim light, the clouds hanging so low and heavy that it might have been six in the evening, not the middle of the day. “It’ll be packed; you can pop into the toilets and magic yourself dry and no one will notice.”

“That might be more comfortable,” Enjolras admitted. “Thank you. Does that mean we’ll be staying in there for the hour?” he added hopefully.

“Maybe. Depends how busy it is.”

Predictably, the little café was overcrowded with people seeking an escape from the rain, so much so that there wasn’t a single free table. Enjolras sneaked into the toilets at the back to dry himself off while Grantaire waited in the queue to get each of them a hot chocolate – Irish for him. Enjolras was steaming ever so slightly when he emerged, and Grantaire quickly led him outside before anyone could notice.

“Can you hold this so I can take notes?” Enjolras asked as they walked away, hunching his shoulders against the wind and bringing the umbrella down slightly to try and block it.

“I _was_ holding it till you took it,” Grantaire snorted, taking it from Enjolras and adjusting the angle so they were both a little more sheltered. “What’s today’s subject then?”

“More survival.” Enjolras pulled notebook and pen out of his pocket. “Specifically, survival in civilisation.”

“What does that mean?”

“How you pay for things,” Enjolras said simply, either ignoring or not noticing the way Grantaire’s hand went tight on the umbrella. “You’ve mentioned that you have an apartment, and though you’re certainly thrifty when you come to the Corinthe, you do buy things. So, how do you get the money?”

Grantaire was quiet for a few seconds, trying to think. “You’re not allowed to judge me, alright?” he said at last, sharp. “Or put anything in your book that’s…I don’t know. It sounds bad, especially after what you said before about werewolves not being criminals.”

“So you’re a thief,” Enjolras concluded, and hissed when Grantaire tilted the umbrella and water dribbled onto his shoulder.

“It’s not like that,” Grantaire snapped. “It’s not like I want to do it. But it’s not like I have any choice, you know? I never take much anyway.” Not because of morality, he didn’t add. Stealing too much was too noticeable, even in a city as big as Paris.

“How much do you normally take?”

“Depends.” Grantaire took a breath and concentrated on the pavement, on the practicalities of avoiding puddles and other pedestrians while keeping the umbrella steady in the wind. “Depends on who I’m stealing from. I take more from Muggles, because I need more Muggle money. When I steal from wizards, I usually…I have to break into their homes, because their purses are usually protected.”

“Aren’t their houses?” Enjolras frowned.

“What anti-burglary spells have you got on your apartment?” Grantaire asked. He wasn’t surprised when Enjolras opened his mouth, then shook his head.

“I don’t have any, specifically. But I’m fairly certain the building itself has several spells on it to prevent that sort of thing.”

“Have you ever checked? Ever asked?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Most people don’t really bother, especially if they have kids who’d set them off by accident. Maybe an alarm on the windows and doors, maybe locks that are spell-locked, but they can be broken.”

“How do you go about it?”

They turned left, and Grantaire sighed. There was water in his shoes, soaking into his socks. “I pick someone and follow them home if I can. Single people, if I can find them. I follow them home and stake it out for a few days to find a pattern. Most people have jobs, leave during the day. I check to see if they do anything before and after closing the door. It’s pretty obvious, most of the time. I go up when they’re gone, check for spells, disable them if they’re there, go in, and take any money I can find.”

“Not items?” Enjolras asked curiously, glancing sideways at him, up from his notebook.

“I wouldn’t know how to sell them,” Grantaire shrugged. “Or who to sell them to. I don’t have any contacts, anything like that. I take money, nothing more. Food, sometimes, but I don’t usually need to do that anymore.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Grantaire frowned, but Enjolras didn’t elaborate. Just jotted down a couple of squiggles (his handwriting was atrocious) and looked at him again. “Wouldn’t it be easier to break into Muggle houses?”

“Nah. Besides, Muggles are much easier to pickpocket, and I need wizard money for some things.”

“Why not exchange the money you steal from Muggles at Gringotts?”

“Because the exchange rate is shit.” Grantaire curled his lip in disgust and glared at the pavement. “Twenty-seven fucking francs to a galleon. Twenty-seven! It’s taking the piss! Fucking goblins, driving it up all the time –”

“You can hardly blame all goblins for the exchange rate,” Enjolras said coldly.

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Yeah alright, monsieur equal-rights-for-all-creatures, but come and tell me that when you have to stand on the other side of a counter with a goblin grinning at you because you came in with a fortune in Muggle money and leave with barely enough to buy a bottle of firewhisky.”

Enjolras huffed quietly, but didn’t press the issue. He went back to the stealing, and as they walked Grantaire found himself telling Enjolras about breaking into Muggle houses as a child, new on the run and terrified of getting caught. He told Enjolras how to pick pockets in a crowd, which spells he used to check for anti-theft curses and how to disable them. His toes squelched in his sodden socks as they walked up and down the roads, Enjolras’ pen scratching away in his notebook as Grantaire described near-misses he’d had, both of them laughing as he related stories about people returning home unexpectedly, suddenly intruding pets, and the memorable occasion when he’d been trapped in a cupboard for several hours while a witch had very enthusiastic sex with one of her husband’s colleagues.

All calculated, Grantaire realised later. Enjolras putting him at ease and encouraging him to ramble, laughing with him and listening attentively to every word in order to get what he wanted. Carefully drawing Grantaire on and on, getting him comfortable enough to get angry. Enjolras took notes at furious speed when Grantaire ranted bitterly about the impossibility of getting a job as either a wizard or a Muggle.

What job could he possibly hold in the wizarding world, with no qualifications and no knowledge? The same applied to getting a job as a Muggle, with the added difficulty of the exchange rate making it hard for him to buy anything he needed in galleons. And for both, how could a man work for any length of time if he took several days off every month? Add to that the risk of discovery if people noticed which days he took off and how they corresponded to the full moon, and it was helpless. Werewolves became criminals because there was no other road to take.

That was what Enjolras wanted to hear. Grantaire walked him to the Jardin des Plants and left him there, almost breathless as he hurried away, torn in two. Enjolras’ attention had made the hour fly by, his mind completely distracted from his cold, wet feet, the ache in his shoulder from holding the umbrella, the freezing wind and his empty belly. But knowing he was being used, charmed into telling Enjolras what he wanted to hear and charmed so well he’d hardly noticed till the end…

Though, did it count as Enjolras using him if Grantaire was letting him do it? Enjolras wasn’t forcing him to give interviews, after all. Grantaire had taken today’s money of his own free will. He decided the sick feeling in his stomach was hunger, no more, and ache in his chest was nothing at all.

 

Grantaire went to the Corinthe every night that week, waiting for Enjolras to turn up so they could arrange another interview. Irritation wound him tight as Enjolras stayed away for night after night. Was it deliberate? Was Enjolras just playing with him for some reason? Perhaps it was some scheme of his, to keep Grantaire in the city for as long as he could. If something did go wrong, Enjolras could just point to Grantaire, maybe even say that Grantaire had been the one to bite him. Who wouldn’t want to believe that? Beautiful, clever Enjolras attacked by a jealous werewolf – it made a good story. It fit the narrative of what everyone thought werewolves were.

Suspicion and paranoia kept Grantaire away for a few days afterwards, and he took to haunting the streets closest to the Muggle entrance of the Magie Aujourd’hui offices, battling with himself over whether to go in and ask to see Enjolras. Every time he got close, he backed away again, unable to overcome the instinct to keep himself hidden. Risky enough that there were so many people from the Corinthe who could identify him – it was a step too far to walk into an official building and reveal himself as one of Enjolras’ sources. Who knew how many people in there knew Enjolras was writing about werewolves?

In the end, the only thing he could do was go back to the Corinthe. Enjolras was absent again on the night he returned, so Grantaire left early, pulling his robes close around him as he made for the exit up to Muggle Paris. Instinct and half-heard footsteps around the corner behind him made him duck into a doorway and freeze, his hand going to his wand. The footsteps came closer, and a man in a long cloak walked around the corner and stopped, looking around.

A lamp hanging from the building opposite illuminated half of the man’s face by chance, and Grantaire sighed as he stepped out onto the street again, his hand still on his wand. “Courfeyrac.”

Courfeyrac jumped, and laughed. “There you are! Enjolras gave me a message for you.” He stared when Grantaire drew his wand the second his hand went into his pocket. “Easy,” Courfeyrac said, startled. “It’s just a letter.” He pulled his hand out slowly, a piece of parchment between his fingers. Since Grantaire had never heard of a spell being transmitted by parchment, he reached out to take it, keeping his eyes firmly on Courfeyrac’s other hand.

Nothing.

Grantaire unfolded the letter one-handed and glanced at it. Apparently Enjolras could write perfectly well when he tried. He saw _Arc du Triomphe_ and _this Saturday_ before he looked at Courfeyrac again. “Why not just tell me?” he asked, frowning. “Why write it down?”

Courfeyrac shrugged. “I haven’t read it, so I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You carried a letter in your pocket all evening and didn’t read it?” Grantaire raised an eyebrow, surprised when Courfeyrac scowled.

“Of course I did. It wasn’t for me – I don’t read letters that aren’t mine.”

Grantaire frowned again, and stuffed the parchment into his pocket. “Thank you, then. I suppose.”

Courfeyrac gave him a mocking half-bow. “We’re not your enemies, Aire. Don’t be a stranger,” he added in a kinder voice. “Enjolras said you’d have a yes or a no for him?”

“Oh. Um. Yes,” Grantaire decided, hoping the cursory glance he’d given the message had given him the right impression of its contents.

“Excellent. I’ll tell him you said so.” Courfeyrac smiled, his cloak swirling around his ankles as he turned and walked back around the corner, back towards the Corinthe.

Grantaire waited until he couldn’t hear him anymore, then resumed his original path, Enjolras’ letter burning a metaphorical hole in his robes. He didn’t let himself read it until he was across the Seine, sure he wasn’t being followed.

_R, could you meet me at the Arc du Triomphe this Saturday at twelve? Tell Courfeyrac yes or no. – E_

Perhaps Enjolras could only write legibly in short bursts. Grantaire chewed the inside of his lips bloody on his walk back to his apartment. It was only two days till Saturday, and exactly a week after that, the full moon. This was lasting too long – he needed to leave Paris. He would tell Enjolras that, he decided, though something in him protested. His foolish attachments weren’t worth risking his life over.

 

Grantaire had been shielded from the wind while walking towards the Arc, but out underneath it, the wind was slowly freezing him to the bone. The sun was out, but the wind snatched any hint of warmth away, and Grantaire huddled against the stone and squinted around, hoping he didn’t look conspicuous in any way. Most of the people crowded around were tourists, pointing cameras in every direction and jabbering away in various languages.

Grantaire saw him the moment he stepped into view, a black Muggle coat wrapped tightly around him, wisps of blonde hair flying about in the wind. He was wearing a scarf as well, Grantaire saw as he hurried over, blue bright enough to match the April sky. “Do I look alright?” Enjolras asked as soon as he saw him, a crooked smile stealing onto his face.

“You…” _Look lovely_ , Grantaire bit back. “Yes,” he said instead, looking down and jerking his head for Enjolras to follow him. “Very good. Much better than your first attempt.”

“I bought the coat myself,” Enjolras told him, with all the pride of a wizard succeeding at a Muggle endeavour. “With Muggle money.”

“Well I didn’t expect them to accept galleons.” Grantaire tried not to let his smile creep into his voice. “Is the scarf new as well?”

“Oh, no – Jehan gave it to me a few years ago, for my birthday. I don’t wear it enough, really.”

It suited him far too much. Grantaire led the way to the underpass that would take them under the roads, and frowned over his shoulder at Enjolras as he did. “You didn’t come across the road to get here, did you?”

“No.” Enjolras smiled. “Combeferre told me there was a tunnel. I don’t understand why they would build something like this in the middle of so many roads though.”

“I don’t think there were roads here when it was first built. Not with cars, anyway.”

“Really?” Enjolras sounded fascinated, and Grantaire paused to let him draw alongside him as they descended into the underpass, the smell of stale piss greeting them.

“Do you know anything about Muggle history?” Grantaire asked under his breath, frowning at him. Enjolras shook his head.

“I’ve read some books, but they’ve all been from a wizarding perspective, so I don’t know how accurate it is. It’s something I want to learn about, but I haven’t been able to find the time yet. Do you know any Muggle history?”

“Um. A bit?” Grantaire stepped around a puddle of something he didn’t want to identify. “I got a couple of guidebooks when I first came here, because they had maps in them, and…well, it’s not like I’ve got much else to do all day, so I might as well see the sights. You can borrow them if you want,” he added, inspiration striking. “Read them yourself.”

“I’d like that.” Enjolras’ smile was too bright to look at directly. “I probably won’t have time to read them for a while, but when I’ve finished the book, I should be able to.”

Grantaire nodded, a fist closing around his heart. By that time, he’d be gone. He could post the books to Enjolras when he left, perhaps. Give Enjolras something to remember him by that wasn’t related to lycanthropy.

They were quiet until they emerged onto the Champs-Élysée, both of them squinting against the sun. “I’d like to ask you about relationships today,” Enjolras told him, looking around at the people and the cars.

“Relationships?” That didn’t sound good. “What does that mean?”

“It means relationships. Which way should we go?”

“Oh, er…” If Enjolras didn’t want to stay on the Champs-Élysée, Grantaire could hardly blame him. “There’s a park up that road?” He pointed. “It’s a bit of a walk though…”

“That’s fine. If you don’t mind, I mean? I can Apparate from anywhere, after all. And we can talk on the way.”

“Sure.” Grantaire shivered as a particularly cold gust of wind cut through him. “Let’s go then.” They didn’t speak as they crossed the road, the noise of the traffic swallowing up the sound of Grantaire’s deep breathing as he tried to anticipate Enjolras’ inevitable questions.

“I tend to split relationships into three categories,” Enjolras told him once they were on the Avenue de Wagram. “Familial, platonic, and romantic.”

“Come again?”

“Familial as in family, blood relations. Platonic as in normal friendship, like the kind I have with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, and I think romantic is self-explanatory.” Enjolras looked around as he spoke, looking every inch the tourist save for his lack of camera and map. Grantaire pushed his hands deeper into his pockets and pretended not to watch.

“Right. What about them?”

“Well, I want to know what sort of relationships the average werewolf has, if any.”

“I don’t know if I’m average,” Grantaire said slowly, chewing the inside of his lip.

Enjolras shrugged. “Either way, I want to know.” He got his notebook out, and Grantaire saw that his gloves were the same colour as his scarf. Jehan’s work again, he assumed, though whatever the scarf was made of was a thinner material than the wool the gloves had been knitted in. “So.” Enjolras glanced at him, and Grantaire whipped his head to face forwards again. “Everyone has a family before everything else comes along. I know you’re pure-blood, but that’s it.”

Grantaire nodded, trying to figure out what to say and what to hold back.

But why? The thought hit him with a wave of tiredness. Why bother keeping things back? Especially when Enjolras wanted to know – just because Gros hadn’t wanted to talk or listen, didn’t mean no one did.

“I was ten when I was bitten,” he said, hardly aware of the way his voice had dropped. “You know that.”

“Yes…”

“I don’t know who bit me. I’ve never found out.” They stepped around a group of teenagers, and Grantaire looked up at the trees overhead, only just starting to show some spring green, most of the branches still bare and thin.

“Do you want to talk about when you were bitten?” Enjolras asked, sounding cautious.

“It…ties in, I guess. You don’t have to dance around it, is what I’m saying. Ask your questions.” Grantaire caught a flash of a smile from Enjolras before he assumed a professional gaze.

“Tell me about your parents. You don’t have to give me their names, obviously.”

“Obviously.” Grantaire looked up the avenue. “There isn’t much to say, really. Both from wizarding families, with some Muggles a generation back or so. One of my grandparents on my mum’s side was definitely a Muggle, but I can’t remember much. I was their oldest. We lived in the Massif-Central, near a few Muggle villages. There were other magical families around too, I think.”

“You were their oldest,” Enjolras repeated. “So you have siblings?”

“Had.” If he didn’t look at Enjolras, perhaps this would be easier. “I had a sister. Gallia. She was seven when I was bitten.”

“What happened to her?”

“The werewolf killed her.” Nothing changed. The sky stayed blue, the cars kept rushing past, and no weight lifted from his chest. Grantaire sighed. “Our cottage was small. Only one floor and an attic. Gallia and I slept in the same room, and she slept closest to the window. It came through and…” He swallowed, and jerked away when Enjolras lifted a hesitant hand to his shoulder. “Don’t _._ It’s done now, it doesn’t matter.”

“Losing someone always matters.”

Grantaire nodded. He could see the road stretching ahead of them, and overlaying it his old bedroom, Gallia’s bed under the window, the bookshelf against the wall, the pale yellow lamp on the table between their beds. They would keep each other up, pretending to be dragons or druids, listening for the sound of footsteps in the hall outside, scrambling into bed as the door opened. If they were being too noisy, their mother would take one of them (usually Gallia) away. Gallia would fall asleep in their parents’ bed, and Grantaire would wake up in the middle of the night as his father carried her back in, tucking her into her own bed.

“We were asleep,” he said, concentrating on keeping his expression and his voice as blank as possible. “It came in through the window, onto her bed. She didn’t…she probably never even woke up.” It was the only way he could live with it, telling himself that Gallia had died too quickly to be in any pain. “It tore her throat out. I screamed…” A deep breath. He blinked, trying to see only the road, only the present. “My mother got to us first. The…it bit me, before she got there. I was…I don’t remember, I must’ve been trying to hide, but it…” His hand was on his left shoulder, he realised distantly. He snatched it down to his side again, shaking his head to clear it.

“It bit you,” Enjolras prompted after a few seconds, and Grantaire nodded.

“Dragged me off the bed, and…it must’ve thrown me across the room or something, or I crawled there, but when it…my mother came in, and I saw it from the other side of the room when it attacked her. She didn’t even have her wand – she’d just come running.”

She’d tried to get to him, but the werewolf had launched itself at her. Grantaire couldn’t remember if she’d screamed – the whole memory was strangely muted after the first crash of the monster bursting through the window. If it had ever growled or snarled, Grantaire couldn’t remember.

“My father came next.” He cleared his throat. “He killed it.”

“He killed it?” Enjolras sounded shocked, and Grantaire rounded on him before he could stop himself.

“It killed his family! What did you expect?”

Enjolras looked down at his notepad, strands of escaped hair dancing around his face. They were still walking.

Grantaire directed them up the Boulevard de Courcelles when the road split, and sighed. “It doesn’t matter who the werewolf was when it was human. It wasn’t human when it attacked us – there was nothing else my father could’ve done. Only a killing curse would’ve stopped it, and he still lost his whole family.”

“He didn’t lose you.” Enjolras looked sideways at him.

“It bit me.”

“So?”

“So…I wasn’t human anymore.” Of course he would need to explain this to Enjolras. “Come on, I thought you’d been researching this. Werewolves aren’t people once they’ve been bitten. As far as my father was concerned, he got to the room too late to save anyone.”

“But he saved you!”

“I’d been bitten!” Grantaire snarled, barely managing to keep his voice in check. “He was too late, and he knew it. And so did I.”

They walked in silence for almost a minute before Enjolras asked, “What did he do?”

“He didn’t do anything.” And that had been more than enough. Grantaire had been crying, he remembered that. And his father had reached for him…then seen the bloody bite mark and withdrawn, tears on his own face as he cradled the body of his dead wife, gazing across the room at the body of his mutilated daughter. Grantaire had understood, even then, even through the pain.

“I wasn’t his son anymore,” Grantaire explained, his voice so low that Enjolras had to lean closer to hear him. “You understand? I was a monster, exactly the same as the one that killed his family. There was nothing he could’ve done.”

“He could’ve taken care of you!” Enjolras hissed. “What sort of father –”

Grantaire wasn’t aware they’d stopped until he felt eyes on him, Muggles staring at the man who’d just shoved his companion so violently he’d staggered across the pavement, hitting the wall of the building next to them.

 _Never hit anyone_. Gros’ voice seemed to reverberate around his skull, the older boy’s fury at Grantaire’s lapse as hot as fire. _Don’t ever act like the animal they say you are._

Enjolras’ pen was lying on the pavement between them, and Grantaire stooped to pick it up, closing the distance between them to hand it to him. “I’m sorry,” he breathed, conscious of the Muggles watching. Not many, but more than enough to make Grantaire scared.

Enjolras took the pen and stood up straight, nodding. “Do you want to change the subject?” He started to walk as if nothing had happened, and Grantaire had to jog half a step to keep up.

“No. I mean…no, it’s fine.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What?” Grantaire scowled at him, bewildered. “What for? I’m the one who…”

“My job isn’t to pass judgement,” Enjolras said in an even voice. “I lost my temper.”

“You lost _your_ temper?”

“I understand that parents can be difficult to talk about.” Enjolras looked at him, his hands at his sides for once. “I shouldn’t have pushed.”

Grantaire shook his head. “I don’t understand why you don’t get it,” he said finally. “My father was a good man. He wasn’t cruel or unjust – I can’t fault him for how he reacted.”

Enjolras lifted his notebook and pen once more. “After your father killed the werewolf, what did he do? Did he summon any other wizards?”

“No. I don’t think so. I left the room, I don’t know what he did with the bodies. I cleaned myself up as best I could, and I hid in the kitchen cupboard.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t want him to see me, but I was too scared to go out in case there were more werewolves.”

“How long did you stay there?”

“A few days, I think. I sneaked out to get food when the kitchen was empty. I knew my father would find me eventually, so I left. I had to go back to my bedroom to get some stuff together, and it was clean by then.”

“What did you take with you?”

“Some clothes, a spell book, some food. I took my mother’s wand too,” he added quietly. “Wouldn’t’ve lasted long without it.”

“Where did you go?”

“Away from people, for a day.” He snorted. “I wasn’t very smart. Lucky it was summer – I don’t know what I would’ve done if the weather had been bad.”

“What about after that first day?” They paused at a crossing, waiting for the lights to change.

“I realised I needed to learn how to steal. I’d hide my things outside a village, go in and steal food, then leave and move on. I wasn’t stupid enough to stick around. I stayed away from roads and people as much as I could, and when I felt the change coming on, I stole a map and tried to find a place where I could transform as far away from people as possible.”

“And it worked?”

“Hmph.” Grantaire glowered at the little green figure as it lit up and they walked across the road. “Sort of. The first time, I woke up a good few kilometres away from my stuff, and my clothes were gone, of course. It took me all day to get back to where I’d started, naked as the day I was born, feet cut to bloody ribbons.”

“You were very tenacious,” Enjolras murmured.

“I was lucky.” Grantaire stuffed his hands back into his pockets. “I was stupid and lucky. I learned after that to tie myself up. Stole some rope from a farm and tied myself to a tree. I had to do that every month.”

Enjolras scribbled a few things down, and Grantaire waited in silence for him to ask another question. He didn’t disappoint, lifting his head a minute later. “Have you ever gone back?”

“Back?” Grantaire frowned. “To my father’s?”

“Yes.”

“Fuck, no. With any luck, he’s moved on. I don’t want to ruin his life a second time.”

Enjolras visibly bit back a comment, and just nodded. “Did you consider ever going to your other family members? Your grandparents?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I was a werewolf.” Was Enjolras just playing the fool, or was he seriously this ignorant? “I wasn’t their grandson anymore.”

“How do you think they would’ve reacted, if you had gone to them?”

Grantaire shook his head. “I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it.” Why do the mental equivalent of thrusting his hand into a fire? “It doesn’t matter. I didn’t go to them. I needed to be on my own.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I was a danger to people. I still am – you are as well. If we were better people, more responsible people, we’d do the world a service and kill ourselves.”

“Do you really believe that?”

Grantaire looked at him. He’d expected Enjolras to be angry again, but he just sounded worried, like he thought Grantaire was about to throw himself off a bridge, and the idea upset him. “How can you not?” he said, instead of asking why Enjolras would care. “The one that bit me didn’t just wreck my life – it wrecked my dad’s, and probably the rest of my family as well. And that was just one full moon. Who knows how many other lives it destroyed before it hit us. If I’d stayed in my old house and let my father find me…”

“What?” Enjolras’ pen was still, his eyes big. Grantaire looked forward, since one of them had to.

“He might’ve killed me. Mercy killing, you know? Makes you wonder,” he rushed on, not daring to check Enjolras’ reaction to that. “How often it happens. It must do, people getting bitten and offing themselves rather than living with it. And if it happens to your kid…”

“Murder is murder, no matter the reason.” Enjolras’ voice could have frozen blood. “It’s like the Morjuet case.”

The name rang a bell, and Grantaire frowned, trying to remember. Enjolras noticed and went on. “The Morjuet parents, when they found out their daughter was a squib.”

“They killed her.” Grantaire remembered – it had been the focus of one of the longest articles in Enjolras’ book. “And there were a few other families as well.” It had been a massive scandal a few years ago, apparently.

“Yes. The Sauniers, the Fleuettes, the Bergers, and the Caillauds.” He sounded disgusted just saying the names. “And the Ministry practically sanctioned it. As if the life of a child is worth less because of a lack of magical ability. It’s disgusting.”

“And at least a Squib won’t try its utmost to kill you every month,” Grantaire said dryly. “I’d much rather be a Squib than a werewolf.”

“That’s not the point. The murder of any child is abhorrent, and there are no exceptions.” Enjolras took a deep breath. “We’re getting off-topic.”

“You steer the ship.” Grantaire waved a hand wearily. “Ask your questions.”

It appeared to take Enjolras a moment to collect himself. “Other relationships then,” he said after a few moments. “Have you ever had any significant romantic relationships?”

Grantaire had to laugh, even if it did come out a little bitter.

“I’ll take that as a no?” Enjolras checked, and the hint of sympathy in his voice shut Grantaire up faster than harsh words ever could.

“Of course it’s a no. Were you serious?”

“It’s always possible. Even in your circumstances, you said you’ve met other werewolves.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“So you’ve never wanted to make a family of your own?” Enjolras pressed. “Have a wife and children?”

Grantaire snorted. “There are a few big problems in that little vision.”

“Tell me.”

In the face of Enjolras’ calm inquiry, Grantaire flushed, looking away from him. “I wouldn’t be able to have children, for a start.”

“Why not?”

“Because you need to sleep with a woman for that to even be a possibility, and I don’t sleep with women.” It came out defensive even though he knew Enjolras wouldn’t care – he’d said as much in their first interview.

And predictably, Enjolras only sounded mildly interested. “You only sleep with men?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s just a me thing, not a werewolf thing,” Grantaire muttered.

“You hardly need to defend yourself to me on this issue.” At the tone of his voice, Grantaire looked sideways, something in him unknotting when he saw Enjolras’ small smile. “I share your inclinations, if that makes you feel more comfortable. What other problems are there?”

“Oh, er.” Grantaire swallowed, hoping his face wasn’t as red as it felt. “Well, that’s…that’s the main problem, obviously. There’s also, I mean. There’re so many practicalities to consider, right? Even if I did sleep with women, I’d have to find one who either didn’t care what I am.” He snorted. “Or was also a werewolf. And fuck only knows what sort of little monsters that sort of union would produce.”

“Normal, healthy children, I expect.” Grantaire actually relaxed at Enjolras’ frosty tone. Better that than soft smiles and sympathy.

“I wouldn’t want to risk it, even with a normal witch. Or a Muggle woman either, come to that. Even if they were normal, what happens on the full moon? You can’t leave a baby on its own every month, or a child. What if something went wrong? What if you escaped and ended up killing or biting your own kid? It’s too dangerous.”

“So you’ve never wanted that sort of life?”

Grantaire shook his head even as he thought about it seriously. “It’s never been an option,” he said at last, shrugging. “How can you want something so impossible you’ve never even thought of it?”

Enjolras wrote, eyes flicking up and down from his notepad to the street ahead. “When you were a child,” he said eventually, looking at Grantaire again, “did you ever want to be anything when you grew up?”

Grantaire jerked his head in an automatic negative, then thought about it properly. “I don’t know. My father was an obliviator, but I never wanted to do that. His parents were Ministry-employed as well, and my other grandparents were researchers. I think…before I was bitten, I think I wanted to work with animals. Be a horse breeder or something, I don’t know. Work in an owlery.” He shook his head to quell the beginnings of a smile. “Who thinks seriously about a future career when they’re still in single digits anyway? Did you?”

Enjolras laughed. “All the time. But I could never decide – I think the regular ones were healer, judge, Minister for Magic, of course. I considered starting my own country, and I liked the idea of being an inventor too.”

“Ambitious little thing, weren’t you?” Grantaire raised an eyebrow. Minister for Magic _of course_. As if every child harboured dreams of power in government.

“Mmm. I wanted to have the power to change things and make a difference, and as I understood it then, those were the positions most likely to give me that advantage. I remember being very disappointed when I found out that I couldn’t just buy some land and declare myself sovereign.”

There was no staving off this smile. It spread across Grantaire’s face until he was practically grinning. “Wizards don’t have kings.”

“That was one of the issues, yes. Still, I couldn’t declare myself Minister for Magic either, so it hardly mattered. Stop laughing at me,” he added, though his own lips were twitching.

“Oh, at once, your majesty.” Grantaire grinned and faced forward again. “My sincerest apologies.”

“Are you mocking me?”

“No, no.” Grantaire took a breath and let his smile fade. “No harm meant.”

Enjolras was silent, the seconds stretching out. Grantaire refused to look at him, and it was a relief when he finally spoke again. “If you’d never been bitten,” he started, and luckily Grantaire’s huff was hidden under the noise of a passing car. “Do you think…no, that’s a pointless question, let me start again.” He cleared his throat. “You seem reluctant, or hesitant, when it comes to the gender of the people you’re attracted to. Is there a reason for that? I’m sorry if that’s too personal, but I wondered if it was related to your condition, somehow, or the life you’ve been forced to live. It’s not normally a point of contention in magical society.”

Grantaire chewed his lip. “I…I haven’t thought about it.” _Lie_. The shame of it pricked at him, and he opened his mouth again. “It’s complicated. I…I wasn’t always alone, when I was younger. I travelled with someone for a long time, and he…I don’t really know that much about him. He never spoke about his life before he’d been bitten, or what he thought or felt. Maybe he was Muggle-born, I don’t know. He didn’t approve of men like that.”

“And he passed those views on to you,” Enjolras said, not sounding pleased.

“It wasn’t like he sat me down and gave me lessons on it,” Grantaire snapped. “It barely came up, it wasn’t important.”

“Did you know while you were with him that he wouldn’t have approved of you?”

“Yes. It didn’t matter, I wasn’t acting on it.”

“Did he know?”

Grantaire desperately hoped not. “I don’t think so.” He hunched his shoulders as the wind picked up again, almost snatching Enjolras’ notebook from his hands. “Like I said, it doesn’t matter. Didn’t matter. You know what I mean.” The buildings on their right finally dropped away, replaced by a tall green fence, the garden beyond visible in gaps between branches and leaves on the other side.

“What about after you parted?”

“What about it?”

“Did you seek out partners then?”

“Partners?” Grantaire caught on a second after he spoke and flushed. “Oh. I…is this relevant?”

“I can move on,” Enjolras said instantly. “If you’re uncomfortable –”

“I’m not,” Grantaire snapped, pride only adding more heat to his skin. “I just want to know if it’s relevant.”

“Well, in a sense, yes. This is an aspect of your life that would likely not have been an issue had you not been bitten. Assuming your family wouldn’t have minded the lack of blood-related children, that is.”

Grantaire dug the nails of his free hand into his palm, clenching his wand handle tight with the other. Why did Enjolras speaking like that make him want to please so badly? “I did, then,” he muttered as they approached the gates, and the little stone temple building between them. “Seek out partners, I mean, as you put it.”

“How?” Enjolras just sounded curious, academic, as though it weren’t personal at all.

Grantaire cleared his throat. “Muggles. They. They have places, in the big cities. Easy enough to find, really.”

“I thought Muggles disapproved?”

“They do. Most of them. But you can still find places where like-minded people come to meet. Clubs, mostly. Dance clubs,” he added, remembering what he knew of wizarding clubs – exclusive groups with dress codes and fancy food, nothing like the Muggle gay clubs he’d been to.

“Dance clubs?” Enjolras cocked his head. “Like balls?”

Grantaire laughed. “No, definitely not.” How to describe it to someone who’d probably never even heard electric music? “Um, these clubs are…alright, imagine if the Corinthe was much darker, and had a dance floor, and the music was so loud you could barely hear anyone talking. And everyone who goes to these places gets drunk, and they’re wearing…clothes that would probably get them arrested if they wore them in daylight.”

“These are places to find someone to sleep with,” Enjolras summarised neatly, and Grantaire’s blush returned in full force.

“Basically,” he muttered, jerking his head to direct Enjolras through the gate as they approached it. Enjolras looked around as they walked in, a smile blossoming across his face. Grantaire watched, something tightening in his chest as Enjolras tipped his head back and looked up at the trees, and the sky arching over them, almost painfully blue.

“I wish wizards had more public gardens like this.” Enjolras smiled at him. “Is there any path we should walk first?”

Grantaire shook his head, tearing his eyes away. “It doesn’t matter. Pick what you like.”

“Thank you. Have you ever told any of the Muggles you’ve slept with anything about yourself?” He chose the path straight ahead, and Grantaire followed alongside him.

“Nothing true, no. International Statute of Secrecy, and all that. They wouldn’t’ve believed any of it anyway.” Wondering if Enjolras would follow him in turn, he walked closer to the left, heading for a branching path.

“No,” Enjolras agreed, falling in step without missing a beat. “Have you ever had a lasting relationship?”

“Longer than a night, you mean?” Grantaire asked, lip curling. They turned left together.

“Yes.”

“No. Well.” He frowned. “Sort of. It wasn’t…I…the only person I’ve been with who wasn’t a Muggle was a werewolf, and I don’t think he really enjoyed it. I don’t think he really liked men.”

Enjolras’ pen hovered over the notepad. “Then why would he…?”

“Loneliness, probably. We didn’t particularly like each other. The only other person he really knew was his sister, and he wasn’t about to sleep with her.” Grantaire coughed. “Apart from him, it’s only been Muggles, and not many of them. It’s too risky.”

“Why is it risky?”

“Because too many things can go wrong.” Grantaire started counting off on his fingers. “You could get too drunk and let something slip, your date could try to rob you, you might get jumped on your way home, if someone tails you, you could end up getting captured while your guard’s down, if your date gets pushy and you have to get your wand out, you’ve broken the law – anything could happen. Your guard should always be up, you should always be careful. And no one’s thinking of being careful when they’re in bed.”

Enjolras slowed almost to a stop, scribbling away as fast as he could. “There’s a lot to be considered then.”

“Yeah.” Grantaire rolled his shoulders and glanced behind them to see if they were in anyone’s way. “It’s not something to be risked lightly. But nothing is, really.”

“Would you pursue something more serious?” Enjolras started walking again, looking at Grantaire instead of his notepad. “If you could? If your condition wasn’t an impediment?”

Grantaire’s eyes flicked around, settling briefly on the ground, the edge of Enjolras’ coat, a passing Muggle’s bright red hair. “Maybe,” he hedged. “It’s not really something I’ve thought about. It’s not an option.”

“Another impossible thing,” Enjolras concluded, sounding a little sad. Possibly sensing Grantaire’s hackles rising, he went on quickly. “What about friendship? Have you ever made any real friends?”

Grantaire made an uncertain noise. “Depends what you’d call a friend. I wouldn’t say so, not really.”

“What about the man you travelled with?”

“He…” Grantaire sighed and gestured to a bench, going to sit without looking at Enjolras. He kept his eyes trained on the gravelled path as Enjolras sat beside him, notepad on his knee, pen at the ready. “Gros wasn’t a friend,” Grantaire told him. “He found me when I was eleven, and died when I was fifteen.”

“He took care of you?”

“Pretty much. We saw each other in a Muggle city, and he just sort of…adopted me. He probably knew I’d die if he left me on my own.”

“Were you sick?” Enjolras sounded so concerned that Grantaire smiled.

“No, but I wasn’t doing too great. I’d been on my own…mmmm, over half a year by that point, at least a few transformations under my belt. But I was a mess, barely hanging on. If Gros hadn’t picked me up, I either would’ve been taken by Muggles, and fuck knows what then, or caught by hunters. He taught me how to live, how to stay hidden, how to do everything.”

“How much older than you was he?”

“He was eighteen when I met him.” Grantaire tucked a stray curl of hair behind his ear. “He seemed a lot older. He wasn’t my friend. Maybe if I’d been older, but…” He shrugged a shoulder. “Who knows? It doesn’t matter now.”

Enjolras’ pen was still, and Grantaire could feel the question before he asked it, almost taste the sympathy in the air between them. Enjolras took a breath and asked, “How did he die?”

“Dragon pox.” It was an old hurt by now, but Grantaire still closed his eyes for a moment. “He taught me to steal too – we’d rob houses together. He must’ve caught it on our last job, picked up infected clothes, or something. Soon as he realised, he left me. By the time I tracked him down, he was dead.” His throat was sore, and he sat up abruptly, shoving his hands back into his pockets and glaring at his lap, clenching his teeth against the humiliating rush of loss.

“Twenty-two,” Enjolras muttered. “He died of dragon pox at _twenty-two_.”

Grantaire looked at him, startled by the fury in his voice. “Yeah. So?”

“So people shouldn’t die of dragon pox so young. Why didn’t he go to a hospital?”

“Records.” Grantaire looked at Enjolras’ hands instead of his face. “He’d been to Beauxbatons. I think maybe he was registered as a werewolf, so if they checked his name, they probably would’ve arrested him, not treated him.”

“And not giving your real name is a criminal offence in itself,” Enjolras said in a tight voice, his hands curling into fists. “That’s so…it’s disgusting. He died of a _treatable_ disease because he couldn’t go to a hospital without being arrested, for one crime or another.”

“It’s the same for me,” Grantaire reminded him. “I’m legally dead. No records at all.”

“So why not use your full name?” Enjolras frowned, hands unclenching. “Why just an initial?”

“Because you can still use someone’s name to find them.” Grantaire leaned back against the bench and shrugged. “If you’d been able to give Joly’s owl my full name, it might’ve found me, even in Muggle Paris. You can use names to scry for people, I’ve heard. Far too risky.”

“In that case, why not a fake name?”

“Because some people can tell, and some places, like hospitals.” The logbooks would reject someone who tried to use a name that wasn’t theirs, he knew. “R as a letter is close enough to my real name to wriggle out of situations like that, just about. It’s not a _lie_ , but it’s not the full truth either.”

“Clever.”

“Yeah, well. I’ve not lasted this long on luck, have I?” Grantaire looked over his shoulder. “Come on, come and look at the pillars.”

“The what?” Enjolras got to his feet when Grantaire did and followed his gaze. “Oh! What is it?”

“Pillars, like I said.” Grantaire grinned, walking on. Enjolras didn’t look away from the lake on the other side of the trees. “It’s meant to be a mini colonnade.”

“What’s a colonnade?” Enjolras asked with interest.

“Well.” Grantaire cleared his throat and gave him a crooked smile. “I imagine it’s like this, but bigger.” The colonnade curved around the small lake, more of a large pond, ornate stone pillars weathered and made more beautiful for it. They passed through a stone arch as they approached, carved like the pillars, though it was made of large bricks.

“It’s lovely.” Enjolras smiled, looking around and then making a beeline for a trio of benches facing the lake to their left. “You’ve mentioned other werewolves you’ve met,” he said as they walked. “Would you tell me about them?”

“More about Gros, you mean?” Grantaire let Enjolras sit first so he could put a few inches between them when he followed suit.

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

“I don’t know much about him, like I said.” Grantaire looked out at the water, focusing on a willow tree on a little island in the lake. “I don’t know what I can tell you.”

“What happened when you first saw each other?”

The tree’s long branches had been trimmed to keep them from trailing in the water, the first pale green spring leaves only just beginning to appear. “I was confused,” Grantaire said, aware that Enjolras was waiting for an answer. “I didn’t really understand what I was feeling. What happened when you first saw me, after you’d been bitten?” He looked sideways, taking in Enjolras’ raised eyebrows, his sudden uncertainty.

“I’m not sure. I wouldn’t know how to describe it. I saw you and just…”

“Knew.”

“Yes.” Enjolras frowned at his notepad, writing something quickly in the margin. “That’s not a good enough description though. Does it have to be visual? Or can you tell with other senses – would a blind werewolf know another by touch, or by hearing their voice?”

“By voice maybe,” Grantaire said thoughtfully. “I found – the brother and sister I told you about, I found them by accident, in Italy. We all transformed in the same area, and I recognised what they were by their howls.”

“While you were transformed?”

“Mmm. So maybe it’s a survival thing, recognising other members of your species. I don’t know.”

“What are the limitations on the visual recognition, do you think?” Enjolras asked. “Do you think you’d be able to tell from a portrait or a photograph? Or if you only caught a glimpse of them in a crowd? Do you have to see their face?”

“You definitely don’t have to see their face.” Grantaire glanced at him. “I knew you’d been bitten when you walked past the table. You came up from behind me – I could tell just by seeing your body.”

“And you could tell when you saw Gros.”

“Yeah. I kind of froze up – confused, like I said. And he came over to me, grabbed my arm, and pulled me off to the side of the street.”

“What did you do?”

“I let him.” Grantaire laughed. “I can’t remember what I was thinking. He asked me if I was with anyone, I think. Then…I don’t remember.” His smile faded, and he shook his head. “It was years ago. He must’ve told me he was a werewolf as well, and…I don’t know. I followed him. I can’t remember if he told me to or not. I don’t even remember where we went, or where he was staying. He just took me along with him.”

“Where did you two go? I mean, did you ever go to any specific places?”

“No. We just moved on, pretty much at random. There wasn’t anywhere safe for us, and we never went to the same place in the same year, as a rough rule. We had lots of rules. All the rules I told you about before, they were all his. And before you ask, I don’t know how he came up with them, or why. We were together for four years, and I don’t even know his full name.” He couldn’t quite hide the bitterness in his voice, the issue as painful as it had always been. As a kid, looking up to Gros and anxiously following his every command, it had stung like nothing else. He’d offered his own secrets and thoughts up, and Gros had rejected them every time with almost brutal efficiency, his refusal to trade driving the point home – no one wanted to hear it. No one cared. No one ever would.

“It sounds like he had a big influence on you,” Enjolras said, looking at him even as his pen touched the notepad, poised to write. “What happened when he died?”

“What do you mean?” Grantaire frowned at him.

“What happened to you? You said he was dead when you found him.”

“I…yeah.” Grantaire couldn’t hold Enjolras’ gaze and looked back out across the lake instead, tensing his body to prevent a shiver. “He was. Probably not for longer than a day – he hadn’t, it. His corpse, it didn’t smell, when I found it.” Another layer over his vision, the lake blurring as he tried to blink away the vision of Gros’ body, curled up and small, the rash of the dragon pox covering his face and hands. His face empty of all expression, eyes half-open, filmed over.

“Did you bury him?” Enjolras’ voice was soft, and Grantaire closed his eyes for a moment.

“No. I couldn’t – I didn’t have anything to dig with, I didn’t know how to do it with magic. I burned him. And I ran.”

“Did you ever meet any other werewolves when you travelled with Gros?”

“No. We kept away from people most of the time.” Grantaire scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed. “Alright, look. I’ve met…” He counted quickly on his fingers. “Seven other werewolves. You want me to cover them in order?”

“That would be perfect,” Enjolras agreed.

Grantaire nodded, lacing his fingers together and squeezing, trying to ground himself. “The one I saw from a distance was first. I didn’t know anything about hunters then. I guess Gros didn’t know either, or he would’ve been even more paranoid. He was more scared of the Ministry than anything else. Anyway.” He cleared his throat. “Marseilles. I saw her in Marseilles, from a distance. She saw me and came straight over, tried to get me to come with her.” He laughed. “I guess it’s probably the only situation in the world where not liking women saved my life. She was flirting,” he explained, glancing at Enjolras’ quizzical expression. “I had no idea how to react and ran off as fast as I could.”

“How did that save your life?”

“She wasn’t alone.” Grantaire sat back so he could see more of Enjolras out of the corner of his eye, pushing his hands into his pockets to quell the urge to fidget. “She followed me, I lost her and then started following her. She went to this café, where a group of men was waiting. I didn’t hear anything they said, but I could tell something was wrong. They weren’t werewolves, for a start, and after she spoke to them they completely ignored her. She sat next to them with no expression, totally still, like she was a doll or something.”

“The Imperius Curse,” Enjolras breathed, and Grantaire nodded.

“That’s what I figured. If I’d gone with her when she asked, they would’ve caught me, no problems at all.”

“What did you do?”

“I left Marseilles so fast it made my head spin,” Grantaire snorted. “Cut my hair and changed my clothes too, for good measure. She’d told them what I looked like, and I knew they were bad news. I thought at first they were Ministry, but that theory didn’t stick. They blended in too well, and even Ministry officials aren’t allowed to use Unforgivables.”

“What about the girl?” Enjolras stared at him. “Do you know what happened to her?”

“What, you thought I’d try and rescue her?” Grantaire raised his eyebrows. “Seriously? Me on my own against four trained wizards? I haven’t lasted this long by being noble, you know.” He’d disappointed Enjolras, he could tell. There was a certain satisfaction to it, dispelling any illusion Enjolras might have held that Grantaire was somehow extraordinary because of his condition.

Of course, there was shame as well, but that was easier to ignore. “You know about the next ones I met,” Grantaire told him, looking forward again. “The brother and sister. They were in Italy, up in the mountains.”

“You’ve been to Italy?”

“Sure.” Grantaire frowned at him. “I’ve been lots of places.”

“Where?” Enjolras’ lips were parted, his eyes bright.

“Um. I don’t know. Italy, Germany, Switzerland, Belgium…I’ve never made it as far north as Denmark, or as far south as Portugal. I’ve been to Spain. I prefer France, obviously. I don’t speak any other language. Anyway, this was in Italy. I told you how I found them, didn’t I?”

“While you were all transformed,” Enjolras nodded, checking his notes. “Does that mean you all just woke up together?”

“Yeah, pretty much. Hell of an icebreaker, waking up naked next to two Italian strangers.” Grantaire sighed. “Elena and Fredo. You can probably use their names, since they’re both dead.”

“Oh.” Grantaire could practically feel the sorrow emanating from Enjolras, baffling as it was. Why should Enjolras care about two long-dead werewolves? “I’m sorry.”

“Why? You didn’t kill them.” Grantaire glared at the willow in the middle of the lake. “Hunters did that. Elena and Fredo were a bit weird – I didn’t understand most of what they said, but they were about my age, and I was pretty fucking lonely at that point.”

“How old were you?”

“About eighteen, maybe. I’ve got no idea who bit them, but I think it might’ve been a family member. Maybe they’d been part of a family before I met them, I don’t know. Elena was the weirdest. She kept wanting to move closer to people. I think she wanted to infect them, give herself someone else to talk to apart from her brother. They were stupid about it, transforming so close to humans. I was only with them a couple of months when the hunters came.”

“What happened?” Enjolras prompted, when Grantaire paused to gather his thoughts.

“They waited till the full moon, and they came after us on brooms.” He hadn’t been scared at the time, of course, as a wolf running through the forest. He’d been driven into a fury by the smell of humans nearby, but never in reach, and angered further still by the pain caused by spells from invisible casters. “I got lucky. Really lucky, actually – it’s a fucking miracle I got away.”

“Wouldn’t that be dangerous? Going after werewolves while they can bite you?”

Grantaire gave him his most unimpressed look, and after a second Enjolras caught on and glared at him. “You’re right,” Grantaire said slowly. “It is dangerous, and really stupid. People shouldn’t do it.”

Enjolras huffed. “These hunters did though.”

“Yeah.” Grantaire allowed him to direct the interview back to the point. “They weren’t as fast as us, but there were more of them, and they could last longer on brooms than we could on our legs. They ran us down, tiring us out, and then they went for Fredo.”

“They killed him?”

Grantaire nodded. “He never saw it coming. I only saw because I was behind him and Elena. And the second he went down, she lost it.”

“She still cared for him, as a wolf?” Enjolras asked instantly.

“Yeah. I guess that’s something that sticks.” Grantaire looked down at his lap, suddenly tired. “She turned around and jumped at the nearest broom. I’m pretty sure she killed the guy – I didn’t stick around.”

“So you don’t know if they killed her?”

“They killed Fredo, so they weren’t hunting to trap, they were hunting to kill.” Grantaire’s voice was flat. “They killed her for sure. I ran till I collapsed, and kept moving when I turned back into myself.”

“But…alright, two questions.” Enjolras turned his whole body to face him, frowning. “If you ran, that must mean there are some situations where a werewolf will ignore humans.”

“I…suppose so, yeah.” Grantaire blinked. It wasn’t a connection he’d ever consciously made, but there it was. “When they’re a threat, maybe? I haven’t really thought about it.”

“And you ran from wherever you’d been camping, so what did you do about your wand when you woke up?”

“Oh, I had it on me. Elena and Fredo showed me the trick, actually. It only works if you’ve got space to roam, but if you do, you can tie your wand to your middle before you transform, and if you do it right it’ll stay on while you’re a wolf. It’s kind of risky, because if you do it too tight, it’ll really hurt, and you can still knock your wand off or break it, but it’s safer than transforming back to human without being able to defend yourself.”

“Have the other werewolves you’ve met employed similar tricks?” Enjolras asked, interested.

“Yeah. It’s obvious when you think about it. But I’d never really let myself roam about on the full moon – it’s too dangerous. I’ve always locked myself down instead.” A cloud passed over the sun, and Grantaire looked up to check its size. It was large, but white – there would be no rain soon, at least. He kept his face tipped back when he felt Enjolras’ eyes on him, not wanting to meet his eyes by accident. A treacherous part of him wondered suddenly whether he should have shaved.

“How did you get away, after you turned back?”

Thank fuck for Enjolras’ single-minded devotion to the interview. “I kept moving, like I said. Summoned myself some food and clothes as soon as I got close enough to a house to risk it, and kept on moving. It wasn’t a bad month, so I wasn’t too weak, luckily.”

Enjolras was quiet, writing for almost a minute. Grantaire took the opportunity to watch him, pretending he was looking at the Muggles on the other side of the lake. Muggle clothes suited Enjolras surprisingly well. But then, even a dress had suited him, divorced from the context Grantaire had seen it in. It wasn’t that he stood out, exactly, so much as attracted attention. For some reason the distinction was an important one in Grantaire’s mind. Enjolras just caught the eye the way some objects caught the light.

“That’s three down,” Enjolras murmured, looking up from his notepad. Grantaire couldn’t imagine how he wrote so quickly without getting cramps in his hand. “Five to go.”

“They’re easy enough – I met them all in one go, in Germany.” Panic gripped his stomach so tightly he actually winced. Naturally, Enjolras noticed.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” If he snapped, it was only to stop Enjolras sounding so concerned, like Grantaire was something fragile to be coddled. He could do this. If he did it fast, it would be easier. “Two of them died while I was with them. There were two women, three men. We were all caught by hunters. Don’t interrupt,” he added in a hard voice, seeing Enjolras open his mouth. “I’m not doing details about that, not for your book or for your curiosity. We were caught when we turned back after a full moon, Magda killed herself as soon as she realised what was happening, and Lorenz hung himself from the top of his cage a day after we were captured.”

He curled his toes in his boots, chest too tight, too tight, the dappled light on the surface of the lake hurting his eyes and it was either close them or tear up, so he screwed them shut for a second before forcing himself to relax. Quick, he had to say this quick.

“The rest of us escaped before the next full moon, and we split up and ran in different directions. Those are the only other werewolves I’ve met apart from you.” He didn’t dare move, only opened his eyes after several long seconds. Enjolras was writing again, the sound of his pen on the paper interrupted only by Enjolras turning a page over.

“I think that’s enough for today,” he murmured at last. “If you don’t mind?”

“Why would I mind?” Grantaire took a deep breath and let it out. “It’s fine.” Sure, he felt mostly numb, but he hadn’t been yanked down memory lane by his own faulty brain, so he was considering the conversation a definite win. “I’m fine.”

“Alright.” Enjolras put his notebook and pen away and started rummaging through his pockets. As soon as Grantaire heard the clink of coins he was on his feet, shaking his head.

“This one’s free.”

“What?” Enjolras frowned up at him. “Why?”

“Because I hit you.” It felt much better to stand, even if the advantage of height was lost when Enjolras got up as well.

“It wasn’t malicious,” Enjolras argued. “It’s not worth five galleons, Aire.”

“I don’t care. You’re not paying me for this one.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Enjolras dug in his pocket again, and Grantaire took a step back.

“If you make me take it, I’m throwing it in the lake. Don’t bother, alright?”

Enjolras gave him a downright irritated look, which shouldn’t have made Grantaire breathless the way that it did. “You didn’t even hurt me.”

“I hit you. You’re not paying me.” Didn’t Enjolras understand that it was inexcusable? Grantaire looked away, clenching his hands into fists in his pockets. “Do you think you’ll be able to find somewhere to Apparate away on your own?” The relief when Enjolras nodded was almost physical. “When do you want to meet again?”

“Ah.” Enjolras pursed his lips, silent for a moment. “The full moon’s next week. I’ve…I’m going to be busy for the next few days, and then I’ve made sure I’m working from home.” He seemed to dim, suddenly, the line of his shoulders dipping a little, his stance listing a fraction to one side. “I didn’t realise how much planning this would entail,” he said, so quietly Grantaire almost didn’t hear him.

“You get used to it.” He wished he could take the words back as soon as they were out of his mouth, but however unpleasant the truth was, it was still the truth. He wondered if every reminder like this would reignite the desperate rage inside him, the pointless anger at how unfair it was. So far, it was undiminished.

“I suppose I will.” Enjolras sighed and drew himself up again. “What about the weekend after at that huge church we went to before, the Notre Dame? On the seventeenth, at noon?”

Two whole weeks. Grantaire wanted to wail, but found himself nodding. “Sure.” Whatever worked for Enjolras. Apparently he would do anything to make the man’s life easier.

 

April’s full moon was easier than March’s. Grantaire felt like shit, but it was at a level he was perfectly capable of handling. He didn’t even start drinking till Saturday afternoon, an hour before he went downstairs to lock himself in the building’s cellar. It was an early moon, this month. It couldn’t have been later than nine when the change came, the pain building until it pushed his mind into nothingness.

When he woke up, his jaw ached so much he could barely open it. He lay still in the dark, wheezing little sounds of pain on every exhale. The explanation revealed itself as the night’s memories came back to him, but he already knew what he’d done. He’d spent full moons chewing on stupid things before, and it always hurt when he woke up. Rocks, wood, occasionally his own tail. His idiot wolf brain got bored, it seemed, and tried to wear its teeth down on anything hard it could get in its mouth.

This month’s targets had been his tail and a large stone on the floor. At least chewing his tail didn’t hurt anything more than his head, since the tail only existed while he was transformed. It was a small consolation when his jaw felt like it had been wired shut.

By that evening, he could at least eat, if he ate in tiny bites and chewed very slowly. In the circumstances, it was for the best that Enjolras had postponed their next interview by so long. It would probably take the whole week for Grantaire’s jaw to go back to normal. Perhaps before Enjolras’ interviews, Grantaire would have gone to the Corinthe during the week to make the wait a little more bearable, but that was exactly the problem: the days without seeing Enjolras had become uncomfortably unbearable.

He couldn’t afford to get attached to anyone else, especially not Enjolras. Grantaire was a known werewolf – there were hunters out there who would recognise him on sight, and his association with Enjolras was dangerous for both of them.

Enjolras’ attention was making him careless, making him foolish. He wasn’t just dismantling Grantaire’s carefully constructed walls of falsehood and secrecy – he was asking Grantaire to do it for him, and Grantaire was happily playing along. If Enjolras asked about his escape in Germany, Grantaire was no longer certain he would be able to lie. He wanted Enjolras to know, though whether that was because he wanted to help Enjolras with his book or because he just wanted to say it out loud to _someone_ , he couldn’t tell. Enjolras had him all mixed up and confused.

Grantaire had never refused money before. At the time, it had seemed like the natural thing to do, but now, away from Enjolras’ influence, Grantaire could hardly believe he’d threatened to throw freely offered gold down the drain. What sort of madman did that? Codes of honour were for people who could afford it, Gros had always said, and Grantaire had believed him. The world hadn’t done much to change his mind since then, not until Enjolras.

Enjolras was fast becoming a delineating point in Grantaire’s life. Before was a mean existence, bleak and bitter and hard. After was a _life_ , a wider horizon, hours of talking to a person who wanted to hear him. It didn’t matter how many times Grantaire reminded himself that Enjolras was only doing it for research; the damage had been done. A smile and a listening ear, and he was ready to roll over and beg.

He couldn’t figure out if the situation depressed or disgusted him more.

He went early to Notre Dame on the seventeenth, sitting on the wall of one of the little flowerbeds opposite the grand front entrance. He didn’t have to wait long. His eyes found Enjolras the moment he came into view, approaching the square from the right. Perhaps if they weren’t both werewolves it would have taken longer for Grantaire to notice him, but he liked to think that wasn’t the case. Enjolras didn’t need to be a werewolf to be arresting, after all.

Enjolras smiled when he saw him, and came to sit at his side. “How are you?”

“Fine. You?”

Enjolras nodded. “This month seemed easier, for me anyway.”

“What about the month before?” Grantaire frowned.

“It was much the same as my first transformation. Why? Was yours bad?”

“Yeah. Are your friends still helping you out?” he added, changing the subject. Mercifully, Enjolras allowed it.

“I don’t know how you do it alone.” He shook his head. “I feel terrible for dragging them into this every month, but it’s so much easier with help.”

“Don’t you…” Grantaire trailed off, but at Enjolras’ nod, he tried again. “How do you make sure they’ll be safe if you escape?”

Enjolras turned forward to face Notre Dame and sighed. “There isn’t any way to be sure. If I get out, I could kill or infect them in under a minute. But I would do exactly the same if either of them had been bitten instead of me. We all decided to risk this when we went after that werewolf in Chaux.”

“Even though you didn’t actually know what you were risking?” Grantaire said archly. “Because you didn’t actually know that much about werewolves at that point, did you?”

“No,” Enjolras agreed. There was an unhappy twist to his mouth. “Looking back on it, I can’t believe how stupid we were.”

Grantaire hesitated, his fingers uncurling at the instinct to touch Enjolras’ arm, though he didn’t allow himself to do it. “What happened?”

“We thought we could handle it.” Enjolras sighed again and linked the tips of his fingers in his lap, palms facing up. “We’d read everything we could find about werewolves, and I was getting desperate. This was the only way we could think of finding a real werewolf without resorting to unsavoury tactics.”

“Like what?”

“Like using the Ministry’s werewolf registry to find the families of those registered, and pressuring them to reveal the locations of their afflicted family members. None of us knew there was a black market involving werewolf parts, but if we had, that would have been another option. We probably would have found out eventually, but Courfeyrac heard from a friend in the Dangerous Creatures department that people had heard howling in Chaux, and it seemed like the best opportunity we’d have. We’re all qualified wizards – we didn’t think we’d need more than our wands.”

“Most hunters don’t need more either,” Grantaire felt compelled to tell him, wanting for some bizarre reason to console him. “But hunters tend to wait for a vulnerable moment.”

“The transformation itself.”

“Yeah.”

The question of why they hadn’t stung Grantaire’s lips, but Enjolras answered it before he could open his mouth. “We needed to find the werewolf before we could follow it and wait for the moon to set. Chaux isn’t exactly a small forest. We decided it would be too dangerous to split up, so we searched together, on brooms.” He glanced sideways at Grantaire, who didn’t meet his eyes. Brooms, like the hunters in Italy, the hooting, shouting wizards who had hounded him and Elena and Fredo through the forest.

“We thought height would give us an advantage,” Enjolras continued after a moment, quieter. “But the trees were dense, and the branches were too thick. We had to fly either close to the ground, or above the canopy. We flew above for as much as we could, and when we heard howls, we followed, and I dipped down to try to spot it, to see if we were on the right track.”

“It jumped at you?” Grantaire guessed, his voice hollow.

“I didn’t see it, but I must have descended just a few feet from its face.” Enjolras’ voice dropped lower, his shoulders slumped. “It smelled me, I suppose, or just saw me. It attacked, knocked me right off my broom, and bit my arm when I lifted it to defend myself. Then Combeferre and Courfeyrac came down and drove it off. It all happened so quickly, I didn’t even feel the pain until we were in the air again.”

“Your arm,” Grantaire repeated, seeing it in his mind as Enjolras had described it.

“Mmm. This one.” Enjolras lifted his right arm and tapped it just below the elbow. “Right here. I’ll be wearing long sleeves for the rest of my life. I didn’t even think of that until after I’d transformed for the first time. I suppose…none of it really sank in until then.” He smiled humourlessly, his eyes half closed. “I thought I would just manage this like any other illness. I thought…well, I thought that if most women can bleed for several days every month with no issues, I could deal with this.”

Grantaire fought back the mad impulse to laugh. “You thought a full-body involuntary transformation into a mindless beast would be like a _period?_ ”

“I can only imagine what it’s like for female werewolves,” Enjolras said in a dull voice, and sighed. “I don’t suppose you ever asked any?”

“It never came up.”

“Mm. Where were you bitten?” Enjolras asked, curiosity returning.

Grantaire hesitated before touching his left shoulder. “Here. It’s…well. It’s a long-sleeved life for me as well, let’s put it that way.” Enjolras’ lips twitched, and something swooped in Grantaire’s stomach. _He’d_ done that. “What –” He broke off as something grumbled – Enjolras’ stomach, he realised, laughing at Enjolras’ embarrassed look.

“I’m sorry, ignore it. What were you about to say?”

Grantaire shook his head. He had been about to ask Enjolras what questions he had for today, but his stomach was feeling pretty empty as well. “Do you want to get some food first?”

“Well…” Enjolras’ small frown vanished suddenly, his eyes widening. “Would we be getting Muggle food?”

Grantaire snorted. “It’s not that different to wizard food, you know.”

“Could we…” Enjolras trailed off, and Grantaire watched, captivated, as a distinct pink tinge bloomed in his cheeks.

“What?” he encouraged, grinning.

Enjolras’ lips twisted as he tried not to smile, looking up. “Could we go somewhere that would be different? If you don’t mind, of course.”

“I don’t mind.” On the contrary, he was absurdly charmed. “Come on, we’ll find something.” What had he never seen on offer in La Cour? Regional or foreign food was the obvious answer, but that would be harder to locate in the heart of Paris. Enjolras was quiet as they walked, Grantaire leading them past Notre Dame as he tried to think of somewhere to go.

The problem was that the French were so damn convinced that French food was the epitome of culinary excellence. And while Grantaire normally didn’t have a problem with being able to sit down at a bistro anywhere in the city and know he’d be eating good food, right now he needed something different. Something impressive. Something Enjolras wouldn’t have seen before.

A grin pulled at the corners of his lips as the answer came to him in a flash. A quick calculation in his head followed, and he motioned for Enjolras to follow him as turned around and headed back the way they’d come, making for the left bank. “Why the Muggle obsession?” he asked as they walked, Enjolras at his side. He was reluctant to say anything that would remind Enjolras that this was supposed to be an interview.

“It’s hardly an _obsession_.” Enjolras looked around at Notre Dame as they left it behind. “It seems strange to me, that we live our whole lives alongside this world we know almost nothing about.”

“Some people know about it.”

“But most wizards and witches don’t. Feuilly and Joly are Muggle-born, and I envy them for it sometimes, to know so much about both worlds.”

“You can’t ever belong in both though, not properly.” Grantaire shrugged at Enjolras’ frown. “I’ve heard you lot talk about it before, Joly especially – he gets caught out sometimes in his training, he’s said, when teachers skim over things they assume everyone will know. And most there will know it, because they’ve grown up with it, but Joly has to either spend time looking it up later or make a fool of himself and ask. And the same goes for you, trying to meet me here for the first time and turning up in a _cloak_.”

“I thought Muggles would wear them too.” Enjolras sounded almost distressed, and Grantaire looked at him in alarm. “They’re so practical, I don’t understand why they _don’t_ wear them.”

“Because they wear coats instead?” In truth, Grantaire had no idea why Muggles didn’t wear cloaks. “Does it bother you that much?”

“I should know,” Enjolras muttered. “I mean, everyone should know, but so few of us do. It’s arrogance, and it’s downright foolish. We could learn so much from each other! Imagine how much we could exchange, how much we could share.”

“Oh yes, the idea of a wizard with a gun fills me with joy,” Grantaire said darkly. “As does the idea of Muggles hunting down dragons and mermaids.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Because that’s what people do to things they don’t understand – they attack.”

“Not always.”

“But usually.”

“But think of how much could be gained –”

“More death and pain, I imagine.”

Enjolras made a furious sound. “Or perhaps people could help each other, did you think of that? Muggles are hardly brainless, look at all of this!” He waved an arm, and Grantaire understood he meant the cars, the clothes, the buildings, everything. “I can’t even imagine what they could offer us. And what we could offer them…”

“Would be too dangerous.”

Enjolras looked away, his expression tight, and Grantaire realised far too late that he’d been pushing at a sore spot. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly, his hunger turning to queasiness. He shouldn’t have tried to start a conversation; he was too argumentative, Gros had told him so plenty of times. He should’ve just kept his mouth shut and remembered that this was an interview, not a date.

Just thinking that sent a prickly wave of heat through him, self-consciousness kindling into humiliation. As if someone like Enjolras would be seen dead on a date with someone like _him_.

“It’s fine.” Enjolras’ voice cut into Grantaire’s panicked thoughts, and when he looked, Enjolras actually smiled at him. Tired and small, but still a smile. “It’s a touchy subject for me, that’s all.”

“Why?” Grantaire’s rationality caught up a second too late, and he winced. “Sorry, that wasn’t, I didn’t mean –”

“It’s fine.” Enjolras shook his head, and Grantaire fell silent. Luckily, Paris did not, and some measure of awkwardness was spared by the continuous noise of a city on a Saturday at noon. La Cour would have offered only the sound of voices and people walking, but Muggle Paris gave that and much more – the steady rumble and rush of cars and buses on the roads, a man on a folding wooden chair playing an accordion, the shrill ring of a bell on a bicycle, clacking and chinking of cutlery on plates from the people eating on tables outside of restaurants and bistros… An awkward silence couldn’t exist, simply by dint of the _silence_ part being automatically disqualified.

It eased the tension between them, every step they took carrying them further away from the disagreement. And after a few minutes, Enjolras spoke again. “My father was a Muggle.”

Grantaire stared at him, sure for a moment that he’d misheard. Enjolras looked ahead, his expression blank. “A Muggle?” Grantaire checked, and Enjolras’ lips twitched.

“You thought I was a pure-blood?”

“Well…” Of course he had. Enjolras was so dignified, so correct and wizardly. Something like shame began to take root in Grantaire’s chest, the uncomfortable realisation that he had assumed someone as admirable as Enjolras must have an entirely magical heritage a growing weight in his stomach.

“I was raised in the magical world,” Enjolras said, his gentle tone excusing Grantaire of his faults. “I know I sound like a pure-blood, and I imagine the way I dressed for our first interview didn’t exactly indicate otherwise. My father died when I was five.”

Grantaire hastily sifted through his memories to find something appropriate to say. He opened his mouth intending to say he was sorry, and instead asked, “What happened?” Despite his lack of tact, Enjolras didn’t seem bothered.

“A Muggle disease. I think it’s called lupus. My mother tried to take him to a magical hospital, but they wouldn’t admit him, even though they were married. She tried to treat him herself, but she’s no healer. In the end, she became desperate and broke into a hospital to try and steal medicine.”

“Try?”

“She was caught.” Enjolras stared ahead, his pace unchanged. “Caught, arrested, tried, and imprisoned. I went to live with my aunt and uncle, and by the time she was released three years later, my father was dead. He’d been too ill to take care of me himself. I was too young to really understand what had happened.”

This time, Grantaire’s mouth didn’t hijack the speech process. “I’m sorry.”

Enjolras said nothing for several moments, then looked at him. “So, where are you taking me?”

The topic was clearly closed. “An American place,” Grantaire told him, welcoming the subject change. “Have you ever had a burger before?”

“A what?”

Grantaire grinned. “I have no idea whether you’ll like it, but I think they’re quite good. Cheap, too.”

He couldn’t tell Enjolras who Wendy was, or if she had invented burgers, but Enjolras enjoyed the meal, eyes bright at the discovery of something new. The giddy triumph of the venture sat strangely alongside Grantaire’s new knowledge of Enjolras’ past. Perhaps it shouldn’t have been so unsettling – Enjolras knew plenty about Grantaire by now, after all – but there was something odd about being given such information freely.

Honestly, Grantaire wasn’t sure how to react to being given _anything_ freely.

“I need to make Combeferre and Courfeyrac try this,” Enjolras declared, finishing off his chips. “Courfeyrac will definitely like it.”

“Combeferre won’t?”

“He’s a bit fussier about his food, but he’ll try anything once. Do you want to stay here, or walk?” Grantaire hesitated, looking out of the window, and Enjolras took that for his answer with an amused smile, getting up. “Let’s go then. I wanted to ask some more about Gros, if that’s alright. You mentioned that he was afraid of the Ministry?”

Back to business then. Grantaire nodded, taking his drink with him when they left (plain water, since he thought Muggle fizzy drinks were disgusting – the bubbles had, however, delighted Enjolras). “I think he was registered, or he’d been bitten while he was still at school or something. We avoided wizards and witches at all costs.”

“Did he ever say why?”

“Not…exactly.” Grantaire frowned, trying to remember anything Gros had said about it. “Not ever in one go. He said the Ministry hated us, and he always said they couldn’t be trusted. I always sort of assumed he had experience with it – that’s the way he made it sound.” He racked his brains, grateful for Enjolras’ silence as they walked. “He said the Ministry didn’t want responsibility,” he remembered, Gros’ scowl seeming to float before him. “Because werewolves are difficult to categorise – not fully beast, but not fully being either. He said the only reason they didn’t just kill us off is because they wanted to look civilised in front of the other countries, so they let us die in other ways.”

“Like what?”

“Exile.” Grantaire’s heart clenched. “Denying us…denying us everything. Starving us to death, keeping us isolated, not letting us be civilised. Gros said it was a…a strategy, a deliberate plan to kill us indirectly, so no one could be blamed. He made it sound like it was all a conspiracy. Everything bad that happened to us could be traced back to the Ministry.”

“What do you mean?” Enjolras’ notepad was out, but Grantaire hardly noticed it, lost in memory.

“From the very beginning – hospitals don’t accept werewolves, not even if they’ve just been bitten, Gros said. They register you so you can’t do anything like a normal wizard. No school, no job, no life. We didn’t have anywhere to live, we had to steal food, we had to steal everything. If someone killed us for breaking into their home, Gros said the Ministry would probably give them an award for doing it. The Ministry encouraged, encourages that sort of thing. That’s what he told me, anyway.” He looked at Enjolras, suddenly unsure, but Enjolras nodded.

“I’ve been doing my own research outside of these interviews, and I’m sure you’re right. Werewolves are a problem the Ministry doesn’t want to deal with.” He sounded as bitter as Grantaire. It was wrong for Enjolras to sound like that.

“Your research,” Grantaire said, trying to distract him. “How have you been doing that?”

“Ministry records, sources in various departments, and sources outside.” Something about the way he said _outside_ had Grantaire’s eyes narrowing.

“What do you mean, sources outside?”

Enjolras sighed. “You could never be the only werewolf I interviewed for this, Aire.” Grantaire stopped dead in his tracks. Surely this wasn’t what it sounded like. Enjolras stepped to the side to avoid being bumped into, moving to face him. “I’ve been careful, Aire, I promise.”

“You…” Grantaire wanted to  _shake_  him, and his face must have done something, because Enjolras bit his lip. “I warned you,” he hissed. “You  _promised_  you’d follow my advice, you promised right at the beginning!”

“Advice which you never actually gave,” Enjolras said, any anxiety in his expression smoothed away. “You implied and inferred through your stories, but you never told me directly to avoid trying to find other werewolves.”

He didn’t even have the decency to be ashamed. Grantaire jerked his head and pushed past him, walking on, pushing down the sense of betrayal. Enjolras was right, of course – he had never directly told him to avoid contact with other werewolves. So Enjolras had kept it secret. What else was Enjolras keeping from him?

But then, what right did Grantaire have to any such knowledge? Enjolras wasn’t his friend.

“Aire!”

That his anger was irrational didn’t make it any less real. Grantaire ignored him.

“Aire, stop, wait.” Enjolras drew level with him, frowning. “I’m sorry, I knew you wouldn’t approve, but what else was I supposed to do? You’d made it clear that you couldn’t point me towards anyone, and it would be absurd for me to hide away indoors without putting this new ability to use. It’s the  _only_  good thing that’s come from me being bitten. How would I have known about you otherwise?”

“I don’t care.”

“Clearly you do, or you wouldn’t be so annoyed,” Enjolras snapped. “I’m being careful. I wouldn’t lead anybody back to you.”

“As if you’d have a choice.” Grantaire glared at him, walking faster. “You think you’d be a match for anyone without a wand?”

“I can handle pain.”

“Oh can you?” Grantaire clenched his hands into tight fists, resisting the urge to shove him. He wouldn’t lose control like that again, not ever, not around Enjolras. “You’ve had practice with the Cruciatus Curse, have you?”

“The…” That shut Enjolras up, at least for a second. His eyes were wide, and he fell back a step before catching up. “They use that?”

“Of course they do. Why stop at Imperio if you’re already outside the law?”

“When they had you in Germany –”

“ _No comment_.”

It silenced Enjolras as surely as a spell would have. They walked in silence for the length of one street, then another, Grantaire keeping their backs to the sun to stay warm. Warm and alive and outside, free to run if he chose, free to leave the city right now if he needed to. He had his wand, he had Muggle money, he could be on a train in under an hour, headed wherever he liked.

He could leave all of this behind in an instant, and never see Enjolras again.

The stab of pain he felt at that was like a bolt sliding home on the door of a cage. He could tell himself he was free to run as much as he pleased, but if he’d rather stay and court danger than flee to safety, wasn’t that a trap as real as any he’d stumbled into before? Enjolras had him in a cage. Whether the bars were visible or even tangible didn’t matter – it was a cage all the same.

“I’m not angry because I think you’ll lead someone back to me,” he heard himself say. “I’m angry because it’s dangerous for  _you_.”

“I’m being careful, Aire. I promise.”

He had no right to ask for anything more. Grantaire sighed. “Do you have any more questions for me?”

“I think…we should leave it here for today.” At Grantaire’s surprised look, Enjolras shrugged, already getting his moneybag out. “We can meet again soon. Next week?”

“Sure?” Grantaire blinked, too confused to protest the five galleons Enjolras put into his hand. Had it even been an hour? “When?”

“Tuesday afternoon?” Enjolras seemed pleased. “We could meet by the tower at the other end of the road the big arch is on?”

“The Place de la Concorde,” Grantaire deduced. “Alright, sure. Three o’clock?”

“I’ll see you then. Don’t worry about me, Aire.” His parting smile was warm enough to take Grantaire’s breath away, and before he could even try to return it, Enjolras was gone.

It was a long walk back to his apartment, but Grantaire needed the time to work through everything in his head. Was it possible that Enjolras was dragging out the interviews? If so, why? The notion that Enjolras was trying to keep him in the city in order to arrange his capture occurred to him, of course, but Grantaire didn’t seriously consider it. It was more likely that Enjolras was trying to give him more money.

As strange and foolish as that idea was, something in the hypothetical sweetness of it lightened Grantaire’s heart. Perhaps Enjolras did care for him, in some way. He bought a bottle of Muggle wine on his way back, his normal pessimism diminishing for once, and only drank half before going to bed. The idea that Enjolras might care for him as more than a source of information warmed him even more than the alcohol, though he couldn’t help coming back again and again to the issue of Enjolras seeking out other werewolves, pressing at the fear like a bruise.

 

Tuesday seemed to race towards him, Grantaire’s desire to see Enjolras again bringing it forwards like a fish on a line. The Place de la Concorde was a terrible place to meet, Grantaire realised as soon as he arrived. The weather was shifty today, changing on a constant back-and-forth from blue skies and sun to black clouds and freezing wind with spatterings of rain, and the obelisk and the fountains either side offered no protection or shelter.

And of course he’d arrived almost half an hour early.

Grantaire sighed and waited for a lull in the traffic to jog across the road, going to sit at the base of the obelisk. Hopefully he wouldn’t get too cold before Enjolras turned up.

As it turned out, he didn’t have to wait more than fifteen minutes before Enjolras appeared, coming from the direction of the Champs Élysée. Grantaire couldn’t help smiling as Enjolras came over, looking pleased to find Grantaire waiting for him. “You didn’t walk all the way from the Arc du Triomphe, did you?” Grantaire asked as soon as Enjolras was close enough to hear him.

“Not that far.” Enjolras had a bag with him this time, a plain brown satchel slung over his shoulder. “Shall we get out of the wind? I’ve got something to show you.”

“What sort of thing?” Grantaire fought the urge to frown, torn between suspicion and interest.

“A…surprise sort of thing. I don’t know whether you’ll think it’s good or not.”

Suspicion won out. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“It’s nothing bad, don’t worry.” Enjolras rocked on his feet at the edge of the road, narrow eyes tracking the movements of the cars. After he hesitated too long over one obvious opening, Grantaire rolled his eyes and grabbed his arm for the next one, tugging him across to safety. “Thank you,” Enjolras said, cheeks a little pink. “Do you know anywhere we could go to sit down?”

“Sure.” Grantaire gestured for Enjolras to follow and headed away from the Seine. He didn’t know anywhere specific, but Paris was hardly short on cafés and bistros. Indeed, they found one up the first road Grantaire tried, and he opened the door for Enjolras with a small flourish. “Voila.” The pleased smile Enjolras gave him almost made him trip as he followed him in.

They ordered a coffee each, and Grantaire was just about to ask again what Enjolras had for him when Enjolras pulled his bag up onto his lap and pulled a folder out. “This is everything I could find out about Antoine-Jean Gros.”

Grantaire’s entire brain seemed to halt. “What?”

Enjolras put the folder on the table between their cups. “His school record, his Ministry record, the names of his family and some of his associates.”

The folder didn’t look thick enough to contain all the things Gros had never told him about. The weight of unspoken secrets should be bulkier than that, Grantaire thought distantly. He had to swallow before he could speak, not looking away from the folder, dark green paper against the smooth wood grain of the table. “For your book?”

“For you.”

Grantaire’s eyes flicked up, wide with surprise. “For me?”

Enjolras nodded, calm. “I won’t publish any of this unless you give me your permission. As far as I’m concerned, you’re Gros’ family, so the decision is yours.”

“Family?” Grantaire’s voice cracked, and he looked down again, not sure what he was feeling. He was too full, his head spinning.

“You seemed to have a brotherly relationship, from what I can tell. Family isn’t always who we’re related to.”

There was nothing he could think of to say to that, so Grantaire just reached for the folder, picking it up quickly so that Enjolras wouldn’t see his hands shaking. But once it was in his hands, he hesitated. He was holding everything Gros had never wanted him to know, things that Grantaire had asked to be told and been denied. Did he have the right to know now?

“Take your time,” Enjolras told him, picking up his coffee. “There’s no rush.”

If Enjolras had brought all of this information together, that had to mean it was freely available to anyone who looked for it. Gros hadn’t existed only for Grantaire – other people had known him too. And Gros was dead. There was no one left to keep these facts secret.

Grantaire opened the folder slowly, sucking in a quiet breath at the first page – a photograph of Gros in a Quidditch uniform, surrounded by teammates on a grassy field. They were all smiling and waving, and Grantaire picked the photo up, staring and staring at the boy Gros had been before he’d been bitten. He was laughing, his hair a windswept mess. The top of a number 5 was just visible on his chest, and Grantaire’s heart seemed to clench.

He already knew three new things about Gros, just from this photograph. One: he’d been on his house Quidditch team. Two: he’d played as a Chaser. Three: he’d obviously loved it.

Everything around him ceased to exist as he moved through the folder. The café, Enjolras, his cooling cup of coffee, they all faded away as he drank in information he’d never even imagined existed.

Gros had been top of his year in Potions, with glowing comments from his teacher. He’d been put in detentions for falling asleep in several classes, and he’d barely been scraping by in Transfiguration. His house had been Flamel. He’d been a member of the duelling club. His parents were called Corine and Emile, and he had a big sister called Edith. His parents had lived in the north of France, and he even had cousins, a boy and a girl older than him, and another girl younger. They’d all gone to Beauxbatons as well.

Gros never returned for his final year of school. He’d been bitten during the summer holidays, and was forbidden from coming back. Grantaire gritted his teeth to stop his chin trembling as he moved from school records to government ones.

The registration form was short and uncompromising. It had Gros’ name, age, address, wand specs, and a couple of sentences detailing the origin of his _contamination_ , as they called it. ‘Bitten in Lorraine on 12/07/53. Werewolf not identified or apprehended.’ Nothing more. There were some notes in the space for physical characteristics, noting that Gros had been bitten on the back of his left calf, his right wrist, and his right upper arm, but those were things Grantaire already knew.

A secondary report had been filed a month later. A Ministry official had gone to Gros’ home and verified that he no longer lived there, and would likely not return. As of that moment, he was wanted by the Ministry for failing to report to the Dangerous Beasts Department. There was nothing more in the folder.

The information swam through Grantaire’s mind, memories suddenly taking on new significance as he slotted these new pieces into the puzzle Gros had always been to him. They never had gone to the north of France, or anywhere near the German border. Gros had taught him spells to fight and defend himself, but never any Transfiguration. He really had been on the run from the Ministry. The pattern of his bites suddenly made sense as Grantaire imagined it in his head – Gros had been attacked from behind as he ran, bitten on the leg. He’d fallen, lifted his arm to instinctively shield his face the way Enjolras had and been bitten on the wrist. He’d tried to roll away, and the werewolf had bitten his upper arm.

There were still holes and gaps. Grantaire didn’t know how Gros had escaped the werewolf that had attacked him, or how his family and friends had reacted, but that was alright. Those were things that he would never know, things that only Gros could have told him, and for some reason that felt right. Dead or not, Gros deserved to keep some of his secrets.

Grantaire couldn’t stop looking at the photograph of Gros on the Quidditch pitch. He’d been a boy with a whole life ahead of him. He’d been talented, playful, with a big family and probably a lot of friends. Maybe even a girlfriend. And it had all vanished with one bite.

By the time Gros had seen Grantaire across a town square and taken him under his wing, he’d already turned hard, his happiness eroded by living rough with no prospects worth spitting on. He’d been harsh and sour when Grantaire had met him, and if anything his outlook had only worsened over the following years. He’d been happy until he’d been bitten, and then he’d been miserable until he died.

Grantaire closed the folder and dropped his head into his hands, fury and despair waging war in his skull. Gros should have lived a long, fulfilling life. He should have _lived_ , period. And instead, he’d died at twenty-two of a treatable disease. Grantaire wanted to storm the Ministry and kill everyone inside, and burn the entire building to the ground. He wanted to rip the throat out of anyone who thought werewolves deserved a life like Gros’.

Was this how Enjolras felt all the time?

“Aire?”

Grantaire lifted his head, blinking quickly. Enjolras’ brows were drawn together in concern, one hand resting on the table. “Are you alright?” he asked.

Grantaire nodded. “Thank you,” he managed to say, his hands on the folder clenching for a moment. “For showing me this. Thank you.”

Enjolras’ expression lightened, and he gave a small nod. He didn’t need to say anything. When Grantaire handed the folder back, he seemed surprised though. “You don’t want to keep it?”

“What would I do with it? Frame it? You keep it. Use it.”

“In my book?”

“Yeah.”

Enjolras’ eyes brightened, but he still asked, “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Grantaire finally picked up his coffee, and made an irritated sound when he felt how cold the cup was. “Fuck.”

“I was going to have another anyway,” Enjolras said easily, catching the waitress’ eye and ordering two more when she came over. They sat in silence till the coffees came, and Grantaire curled one hand around his mug and closed his eyes as his palm began to burn.

“Thank you,” he said again, exhaling it.

“You know, there are more registered werewolves than I expected,” Enjolras said after a moment. “From what you’d told me, I’d expected the number to be tiny. From what I can tell, people don’t understand what’s changed when they’re bitten.”

“What do you mean?” Grantaire opened his eyes, frowning.

“They don’t realise they’ve switched sides,” Enjolras told him. “They’re bitten and think of themselves as victims of a crime. Their first reaction is to go to a hospital to be treated, and they don’t realise that the Ministry will be notified, and that they won’t be treated as victims – they’ll be treated as a threat. It dawns on them too late that they’re the criminals now, in the eyes of everyone else.”

“So what then?”

“They’re registered quickly, usually the same day or the day after they were bitten. They’re ordered to report to the Ministry for a follow-up appointment. Most don’t show up. Those who do are investigated and harassed. Eventually they stop coming, and when that happens they’ve broken the law, so if they haven’t made a run for it, the Ministry will arrest them for being non-compliant.”

“Then they get taken to Verecasat?”

“Yes. There are currently five werewolves imprisoned there, if the records are true.”

“Do they ever get out?” Grantaire asked, not sure whether he wanted to know the answer.

“Eventually. The normal sentence is five years, but if the prisoner acts out in any way, the sentence is extended. There have been some releases – obviously those werewolves disappear as soon as they get out.”

“Good for them.”

“Right into the waiting arms of the hunters,” Enjolras said darkly.

Grantaire’s brain seemed to do a sort of somersault. “Your other source,” he realised, his chest tight.

Enjolras frown melted away, his expression going almost blank. “I can’t tell you anything about them without their permission.”

“Them?” Grantaire had to put his coffee down or risk spilling it. “How many people have you just walked up to and started interrogating?”

Enjolras’ eyes narrowed very slightly. “Thank you for your vote of confidence.”

“It’s not about _confidence_.” Grantaire lowered his voice, glaring at Enjolras. “It’s about not being a complete idiot. This is you diving down into a forest looking for a werewolf on the full moon, over and over.”

“This is my job.” Enjolras spoke quietly as well, cold and sharp. “A job I’m actually quite good at, despite what you appear to think. I understand why my actions would make you wary, but it’s a calculated risk. I _am_ being careful. Aire,” he added as Grantaire opened his mouth, and held his gaze as he closed it. “Trust me. I’m taking precautions. I’m not working alone on this.”

He could have been cruel. Grantaire could almost taste the unspoken words Enjolras could have unleashed on him – he knew how Enjolras wrote when he was angry, he could only imagine how unpleasant it would be to be the subject of such venom. But Enjolras had tried to reassure him instead.

“What precautions?” Grantaire asked after a long moment, unwillingly conceding that he had no influence over Enjolras’ decisions.

Enjolras’ eyes lost their cold edge. “Our friends are used to accompanying me to meet interviewees. They follow at a distance and stay close enough to help if something goes wrong. I haven’t told them anything about you, don’t worry, but they know what I am.”

“They – all of them?” Grantaire was aghast. “You told everyone you were bitten?”

“Not everyone I know, obviously, but my close friends, yes. I trust them. It would be like not telling my mother.”

Of course he’d told his mother. Why was Grantaire even surprised? He swallowed and took a breath before asking, “How did she react?”

“The same as our friends, really.” Enjolras clasped his hands loosely on the table, looking down. “Sympathy and fear. Fear for me,” he added, clarifying. “Not of me.”

Grantaire rubbed his nose, ducking his head to try and figure out why his insides were writhing at this new information. Why should he care how Enjolras’ mother had reacted? He shouldn’t have asked at all. He cleared his throat, getting back onto the topic of Enjolras’ interviews. “Has anything gone wrong before?”

“Several times.” Enjolras’ lips twitched at Grantaire’s visible relief. “That’s good?”

“Means you’ve gotten yourself out of trouble before, at least. What’s happened?”

“I sometimes get people who claim to be sources, but are just trying to lure me somewhere to attack me. I’m capable of defending myself, and a lot of the others are good in a duel as well. I’ve never been hit by anything more serious than a hair-loss jinx.”

Grantaire was leaning forward before he even realised, his anxiety momentarily forgotten. “You were _bald?_ ”

“No comment.”

Grantaire let out a bark of surprised laughter, and Enjolras grinned as well. A sudden thought struck Grantaire, and he frowned. “Did someone follow you the first time you met me at the Eiffel Tower?”

“No. I’d already been alone with you before then, and you weren’t a stranger.” Enjolras smirked. “I trusted you not to try and kill me in front of hundreds of Muggles, especially given how much convincing it took to get you to talk to me in the first place. And speaking of that, could I ask you some more questions?”

“Oh, um. Sure, go ahead.”

“Thank you.” Pen to paper, calm reporter eyes on him. “Have you ever encountered any Ministry employees?”

Grantaire licked his lips, thinking. “Not that I know of,” he said at last. “But I’ve gone to places like the Corinthe before, and I never know who else is drinking.”

“So no Ministry wizards have ever come after you? You’ve never had any near misses?”

Grantaire made a noise in the negative. “I’ve almost been caught stealing by a few people, but if they were Ministry, I never knew about it.”

“Which would you say is the bigger threat, the Ministry, or hunters?”

“Do you even need to ask?” Grantaire snorted. “Come on.”

“I always need to ask.” Enjolras looked up from his notepad with a faint smile. “But I assume your answer means you consider hunters to be the more pressing threat to your survival.”

“Obviously.”

Enjolras nodded, glancing down as he wrote something on the paper. “You’ve had near misses with hunters twice, and been captured by them once, is that right?”

Grantaire shifted, bringing his coffee cup to his lips to try and conceal it. “Mmhm.”

“Were these all different hunters? I understand that you don’t want to talk about your capture, that’s perfectly fine, but anything you could tell me about the hunters would be greatly appreciated.”

Grantaire huffed. “I’m not made of glass.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m going to be careless,” Enjolras replied simply, raising his eyebrows just a fraction, almost in challenge. _If it’s not a problem, answer the questions_.

Grantaire took another sip of coffee. The bitterness was grounding, as was the warmth of the café, and Enjolras’ quiet presence on the other side of the table. He could do this. He wouldn’t have to talk about anything he didn’t want to. “The hunters I saw from a distance in Marseilles were all men,” he said, looking down at his cup, still half full. “I don’t remember anything else about them. There were four or five. It was a long time ago.”

“How old were you when you saw them?” Enjolras asked curiously.

“Not long after Gros died. Fifteen or sixteen, probably.” Grantaire took a breath. “I didn’t see any of the hunters in Italy. I wasn’t myself. There were at least four of them, but I don’t know if they were men or women or what. The ones in Germany…” Another breath. He took another quick sip of coffee. He was here, in a café in Paris, with Enjolras. He was safe. “There were three of them in Germany, but they were part of something bigger. Two of them were German – Holzer and Kopp – and the other was French, called Babet.”

Enjolras was writing quickly, and Grantaire looked at him, focusing on the present. He could see the street outside through the window behind Enjolras. He couldn’t see the sky, but there was light on the pavement, people walking back and forth. Everything was fine. He cleared his throat and forced himself on. “He was their contact, or something like that. They were going to…Babet had links to some sort of organisation here in France, something like Patron-Manette, or Patron-Minette. There were other names,” he added, seeing Enjolras pause. He wanted Enjolras to keep writing, to keep his head down so Grantaire could keep watching him. “Gueulemer and Thénardier. It was a family business, he said, at least on Thénardier’s part. He had a wife involved, and kids too.”

He drank the rest of his coffee and slipped his hands under the table, digging his fingernails into his palms. He was here. He was in Paris, in a café.

Knowing that didn’t stop him seeing Babet, tall and thin as a skeleton, his gaunt face and thin lips, the way his long, pale fingers closed around the handle of his wand as he raised it –

Grantaire dug his nails in harder, blinking quickly and looking at Enjolras. “They were going to transport us to France,” he muttered, making himself see only the present, only Enjolras. “Those were their names. I don’t know anything more about them.”

Enjolras nodded, jotting down a couple more notes before lifting his head. “Could you – ah.” He paused, then went on quickly. “Is there anything you’ve ever enjoyed about being a werewolf?”

“Enjoyed?” Grantaire was too tense to laugh, but he made a valiant attempt. “No. There’s nothing good about this.”

“What about transforming when there aren’t any humans around?” Enjolras asked. “When you’re just a wild animal?”

Grantaire frowned, and the world around him settled properly as he tried to think about it. “I suppose…I’m obviously not aware of it when I’m transformed, but the times when I’ve had enough space to not restrain myself on a full moon…when I was with Elena and Fredo,” he said, his voice stronger, “and we were all just running together, that wasn’t bad. I’d still rather be normal, of course, but that’s the only time transforming hasn’t been an ordeal. It’s dangerous though, not to be restrained,” he added, unable to help himself. “A wolf can cover a lot of ground in a night, and even without the danger aspect, it’s just impractical. You as a wolf aren’t going to head back to get your stuff at the end of the night.”

Enjolras nodded, writing quickly. “If you had to choose one word,” he said after a moment, speaking slowly as he scribbled, “to describe the way being a werewolf makes you feel, what would it be?”

Grantaire looked away, leaning back in his chair and frowning. “I don’t know. Just one word, I…” He shrugged and glanced back at Enjolras. “What word would you choose?”

He assumed Enjolras would have already thought of an answer, and was proven right when Enjolras replied without hesitation. “Limited,” he said, meeting Grantaire’s eyes. “Even though I haven’t been like this for very long, I already feel so restricted. I’m very aware of how many doors this has closed for me. I’m always going to have to be careful now, not to let anyone find out. Everything has to be planned around the full moon, and it’s going to be that way for the rest of my life. What’s it going to be like when I’m older? And I mean much older, when I’m weaker, with my senses dimmed. Will I be physically frail as a wolf as well?” He shook his head. “I used to think I would never let anything get in the way of my goals, but this has changed everything. It’s shackled me.”

Grantaire sighed, pushing a hand through his hair, his fingers snagging on tangles. “I’ve never even thought about getting old. Honestly, I’m surprised I’ve made it this far. I hope…I hope you get old.”

“Why wouldn’t you?” Enjolras asked, ready in an instant to argue against Grantaire’s pessimism despite his own depressing speech a moment before. Grantaire had to smile.

“I’ve never met a werewolf older than thirty.” He shrugged, lips quirked. “I won’t get old.”

“How do you know?”

Grantaire shook his head, looking down at the table. “Because my luck won’t hold forever. I’m going to die in a cage, probably in pain, maybe not even in one piece.”

“Don’t say that!” Enjolras whispered fiercely, but Grantaire waved a dismissive hand.

“It’s inevitable, Enjolras. Someone’s going to catch me, and then they’ll kill me. If I’m lucky, I’ll die like Fredo, nice and quick.”

“Stop it.” Enjolras was appalled. “You can’t give up like that. You can’t just accept it.”

“Too late. Powerless, by the way.” Grantaire touched a finger to his coffee cup’s handle, turning it so the handle was pointing to his right. “That’s my word. Being a werewolf makes me feel powerless.”

Enjolras sighed, but of course after a second he had to ask, “Why?”

“Because that’s what I am. I have no influence over anything that affects me. I can’t change the law, I can’t stop the hunters, I can’t turn back time. The only thing I can do is run. Everything I’ve done since I was bitten has been to keep myself alive, and eventually, I’m going to fail. There’s nothing I can do to change any of it.”

Enjolras nodded, paper rustling as he turned over a new page to keep writing. Grantaire watched, then straightened, a realisation dawning on him. “This is the only thing I’ve done that might do something,” he said quietly, staring at the notepad even when Enjolras stopped writing to look at him. “It probably won’t change anything, but…I suppose, at least I’ve done something. I’ve helped you, haven’t I?”

“More than you could possibly realise.”

Heat twisted in the pit of Grantaire’s stomach, and he ducked his head in a sort of half-nod. “So,” he said, clearing his throat. “Any other questions?”

“Not today, I don’t think. I’d like to meet again, this Friday, if you’re free?”

“Let me check my calendar,” Grantaire said sarcastically, managing to meet Enjolras’ eyes and smile, crooked. “Yeah, I’m free.”

Enjolras smiled back. “Where would you like to meet? I’ve picked the last few, it feels like.”

“Champ de Mars?” At Enjolras’ obvious incomprehension, Grantaire explained. “It’s the park in front of the Eiffel Tower. At the other end of it is a big mansion sort of building. I’m not sure what it is, but you can’t miss it. There’s a statue of a Muggle on a horse right in front of it. I can meet you there?”

“Yes, thank you. Three o’clock again?”

“Sure.”

Enjolras nodded and flipped his notepad shut, slipping it and his pen away and pulling out his moneybag. Grantaire took the five galleons, and let Enjolras pay for their drinks in francs. It stung his pride, but his practical side held his tongue. They parted outside the café, heading in opposite directions. Grantaire had to force himself not to look over his shoulder as he walked away, sure by now that Enjolras was drawing the interviews out for longer than he needed to.

That Grantaire couldn’t bring himself to say a word about it hurt his pride far more than letting Enjolras pay for two coffees, but his pride wasn’t worth cutting short his time with Enjolras. The more he got to know him, the harder he wanted to hold on, no matter the risks.

He would die sooner or later, just as he’d said. And when he died, he wanted to know that he had as many memories of Enjolras as he’d been able to get. He took a long route back to his apartment, pausing to eat, pausing again to buy more wine. He needed to be drunk tonight, the only shield against nightmares he knew.

 

Grantaire woke with a start, instinct jerking him from dreams to full awareness with no in-between. There was a dark figure in the doorway, and terror lurched into his throat, his hand going for his wand, always kept under his pillow –

“Stupefy!”

Red light, and then nothing.

 

Grantaire woke with his cheek against cold stone, his arm twisted under his body at an uncomfortable angle. Everything was dark, pitch black, and the only sound was the hoarse noise of his own uneven breathing. He sat and reached out with his arms, trembling, tears springing to his eyes because this couldn’t be real, this couldn’t have happened, anything but this, _anything_.

The wall behind him was rough bare brick, and Grantaire started to whimper, too scared to swallow it down. He shuffled forwards half a foot, and his shaking fingers touched metal bars.

“No,” he rasped, “No, no, no…” He couldn’t find an end to them, not without moving again, and he was screaming, he was screaming at the top of his lungs, throat burning from the desperate volume of it.

Lorenz to his left, Lila to his right, Michael on her other side. Lorenz’s body hanging from the noose he’d made of his own shirt, his twitching, kicking legs as he let himself choke to death, his face turning purple, swelling up, eyes going red as the blood vessels burst.

Grantaire flung himself at the bars, screaming for someone to come, someone to hear, someone to help, someone, _anyone_ , please, please –

The hunters laughing, Kopp playing with them, torturing them, putting them under the Imperius curse to force them to humiliate themselves. Grantaire had played the dog, barked and crouched on all fours, begged without words, whimpering like an animal. Babet torturing him over and over and over, until Grantaire lost control of his bowels, until he lost his voice from screaming.

It was happening in his head, his nightmares as real as if he was there again. The bars were the same, the dark was the same. His mindless, broken terror was the same.

 

It might have been minutes or hours before Grantaire came back to himself, his body aching all over, his face wet with snot and tears. His pulse throbbed in his temples, and he was freezing cold, shivering so hard it felt like his bones were rattling. No one had come. No one could hear him.

Or, those who could hear him were people who didn’t care how loudly he screamed.

An involuntary sob interrupted the rhythm of his shivers, and Grantaire choked back another. Crying wouldn’t help. He knew he should get up and measure the size of his cage, feel around to discover anything he could use as a weapon, find out if his captors had left him any water or food. He knew he should move. But knowing and doing were so far away from each other at this point that they might as well have been on different sides of the planet. All Grantaire could manage was pulling his bruised limbs in against his body, not even sitting up to lessen his contact with the freezing ground.

He was going to die. Soon, whoever had taken him would come to check on him, and then he would find out the manner of his death. Would they wait for the full moon so they could kill him while he was transformed? Or would they keep him alive past that, taking bits of him whenever they needed? Blood, hair, teeth…he was all theirs now. Without a wand, he didn’t have even the faintest hope of stopping them. He’d been so calm telling Enjolras how he expected to die, but now he was here, he would have cut off his wand arm to be away.

Grantaire couldn’t stop himself crying now. What would be the point anyway? He had no illusions of presenting a stoic front. He could only hope they didn’t know about Enjolras, because Grantaire didn’t know if he would be able to withhold anything under the Cruciatus Curse.

More time passed, with no way to measure it. Grantaire’s sobs eventually wore themselves out, and he shuffled around the floor of the cage, blindly searching for anything in there with him. The only thing he found was an old, rough blanket, which he wrapped around himself gratefully, not caring that it stank of mildew. He was in no position to be picky.

His throat was raw from screaming, but there was no water that he could find. His cage was large, a good ten feet or so wide, tall enough that he could stand without hitting his head on anything. He guessed that he was in a cellar from the brick and stone around him, and the cellar was small if the lack of echo was any indication. Or it was big and he was simply in a small part of it. There wasn’t any light at all for him to see.

He had to force himself to examine the bars, shivering as he pressed his hands to the metal, checking the distance between them, trying to find a weakness. There was no door that he could find, no irregularity in the bars, no hinges, which meant they’d been conjured with magic. All of it felt new, as far as he could tell. Constructed for him? The thought was too much, and he retreated to the back of the cage, huddled in the blanket.

What would Enjolras do?

Grantaire clung to the thought, his imagination running away with him as the time stretched on and on, with no promise of anyone coming to him. If Enjolras had been taken like this, he wouldn’t have wasted time and energy on hysterics. Enjolras would make a plan, he would be patient, lie in wait for his captors to come and pretend to be unconscious so they would get close to check on him. And at the last moment, he would spring up and steal a wand, blast the lot of them into oblivion and escape.

If Enjolras was here with him, they could protect each other. He would have stopped Grantaire hurting himself against the bars, they would be sharing the blanket and their body heat right now.

The dream of it was enough to hold Grantaire still when the urge to panic took him again. He imagined Enjolras’ arms around him, keeping him safe, and managed to stay where he was, conserving his strength. Twice more he lost himself to memories of the warehouse in Sachsenwald, but he managed to stay under the blanket, if not stifle his cries. Forcing himself to acknowledge his physical discomfort helped to anchor him. The cold, the hard ground, the way he had to relieve himself in a corner, his growing hunger – it all helped to remind him where he was, which was _not_ Sachsenwald.

Eventually, he fell into a light sleep, and woke feeling he hadn’t slept at all as his ears caught an unfamiliar sound. Footsteps, somewhere above him. Grantaire’s heart started to pound, and he sucked in deep breaths, pulling the blanket up over his head to hopefully cast his face in shadow. He couldn’t afford to lose his mind now. This might be his only chance to escape.

Something scraped – a bolt across a door – and weak light poured into the cellar from a door halfway up the right wall. Grantaire’s eyes flicked around, trying to take in as much as he could. A set of rough stone steps led up to the door, no banister. The cellar was small, barely more than a hole in the ground, split in two by the bars dividing it. There was rubbish piled up in the corner opposite the stairs, presumably moved to make room for his cage.

There wasn’t time for more observation. Someone was coming down.

Slim, black boots below calf-length robes. Grantaire watched, scarcely breathing, as a witch walked slowly down the stairs, a wand in her hand. As she came further down, he could see more. Her robes were dark, black or grey, and her hair was tied in a knot at the back of her head, the colour like embers in the light coming from the doorway above. “It’s contained,” she called in a low, husky voice. “Ugh, and something stinks.”

“Is it alive?” another woman called back.

“Hm.” Grantaire held his breath, knowing what was about to happen. He barely managed not to shout when a bang exploded through the cellar and his body was blasted backwards. He flipped over and landed on his back, head turned to face the wall. If he could play dead for just a little bit longer, if he could manage to get them to come and check his pulse…

“Well?” the woman from above shouted.

“He’s alive, but he’s unconscious. Knocked himself out somehow, probably. Bring down that water, Zelma, and something he can shit in. We need him alive.”

Grantaire’s fear reached new heights, and he fought not to tremble and give himself away. What sort of plans did they have in store for him?

More feet on the stairs. “This is a stupid idea,” Zelma snapped. “Montparnasse will know we’re the ones who took him.”

“He’ll think it was Gueulemer,” the other woman said dismissively, and Grantaire’s entire mind seemed to scream, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it would break his ribs.

“He’ll check, and then he’ll come looking for us, and then he’ll figure it out and tell papa.”

“He won’t.” The sound of water in some sort of vessel, coming closer, and a clink as it hit the bars.

She was sticking her hand through the bars to put the water down.

Terror lent Grantaire speed and strength. He moved faster than he would have believed possible, grunting as he rolled and lashed out, his hand closing tightly around a thin wrist and yanking forward so hard the woman’s head collided with the bars.

His victory lasted perhaps a second. The other woman – Zelma – screamed and pointed her wand at him. The blast threw him back against the wall with a bone-shaking thud, tearing his hand from the wrist he’d grabbed and winding him in the process.

“Filth!” Zelma snarled, pulling the other woman back. “You’ll pay for that!”

“Don’t!”

Grantaire’s chest heaved, trying to pull air back into his lungs. He stared as the woman he’d grabbed stopped her companion from cursing him and pulled away, picking her wand up from where she’d dropped it. “We need him alive and undamaged.”

He couldn’t be seeing this. He shook his head, his mouth gaping soundlessly, croaking in a vain attempt to speak. These women were hunters, that was certain, and now he could see them both, he was sure they were also sisters – they had the same red hair, and the same narrow eyes. But the one called Zelma was more than that, and he was sure now he wasn’t hallucinating.

“Werewolf,” he rasped, pointing at her, and her face twisting in fury was the last thing he saw before she stunned him.

 

He woke up in the dark again, and by carefully feeling around he found a cooking pot (thankfully with a lid) he could use as a toilet, and the jug of water the women had left for him. He drank half of it slowly in little sips, thinking about what he’d found out.

These witches were part of the organisation Babet had been part of, that much was clear. But Zelma had been bitten, and now her sister was hiding her from the rest of them. Grantaire couldn’t help smiling to himself in the dark, spite invisible. A bitten hunter – what sweet irony. He’d laugh, if he wasn’t still scared for himself. They’d captured him for something, and he was certain it wouldn’t be good.

There was also the concern of the time. He had no way of knowing how long he’d been down here. They’d taken him on Tuesday night, so he’d probably woken up on Wednesday morning and lost the whole day to waking nightmares. It might be Thursday now, which meant that Enjolras would be expecting to meet him tomorrow, and when Grantaire didn’t turn up, Enjolras would…

What would he do? What could he do? Grantaire’s own caution might end up being his downfall. Enjolras had no idea how to find him. He didn’t know where Grantaire lived, where he went, or even his full name. But Enjolras did know the names of some of these hunters. Perhaps he could track them down somehow, hunt them the way they’d hunted Grantaire.

But what would that do? By the time he got to them, if he ever did, Grantaire would surely be dead. And Enjolras could end up being captured himself, and the very thought of that made Grantaire shudder.

He would have to find a way out of this on his own. Luckily, it looked like he had plenty of time on his hands.

 

The next time the door at the top of the stairs opened, Grantaire didn’t bother pretending to be anything but awake (and extremely hungry). “Who are you?” he asked immediately, squinting at the light. The door was too high for him to see anything beyond it, and the witch who was coming down wasn’t the werewolf. More importantly, she was carrying a plate, and he could smell something hot and meaty. “Are you part of Patron-Manette?”

She narrowed her eyes. “What do you know about Patron-Minette?”

“I know they hunt werewolves. What’s your name?”

“None of your business.” She pointed her wand at him. “Get away from the bars, dog.”

“Do you call your sister a dog too?” Grantaire asked, backing up. “She is your sister, isn’t she?”

The witch spat at him, the saliva falling short. “Keep your mouth shut, or I’ll silence you.”

This was the problem with getting out of this himself – he had no leverage to speak of. “You know none of it’s true.”

That got her attention, her nose wrinkling as she crouched to put the plate on the floor in front of the bars, wand still trained on him. “None of what?”

“The stuff you say about us.” Grantaire watched her, trying not to let his fear show. Speak wrong now, and he could easily end up on the end of a Cruciatus. “We’re not mindless beasts, are we? We’re not monsters.”

She sneered, straightening up. “You don’t look like a wizard to me, dog.” She directed her wand at the jug for a second, refilling it without looking away from Grantaire.

“But your sister looks like a witch?” Grantaire pressed, not daring to move a muscle in case she attacked. “What makes her different from me? She hasn’t changed since she was bitten, has she? She’s exactly the same. So am I.”

“You shut up,” she snapped, jerking her wand. She cast no spell, but he instinctively recoiled so hard his back hit the wall, and she laughed. “Skittish.”

“So would you be, if we were in each other’s shoes.” His heart was going like a racing broom, thundering against his lungs. “You know I’m not a beast. Let me go.”

She shook her head, retreating towards the stairs. “Not a chance.”

“Please!” he couldn’t breathe, the cellar seeming to fade around him, replaced by the warehouse in Sachsenwald. “Please, let me go, I’m as human as she is!”

“But I care about her,” the witch said coldly, starting to go upstairs. “And I don’t give a shit about you.”

“I’ll be missed!” Grantaire shouted, desperate. “People will notice I’ve disappeared, they’ll come looking for me, they know about Patron-Minette!”

“They.” She snorted, cruel. “You mean your pretty blonde lover?”

Shock sliced through the panic for a brief second, shame and self-consciousness following swiftly on its heels. “He’s not my _lover_.”

“But you’d like him to be, hm?” Her smirk was like a knife in the dark, red hair gleaming like fire in the light from the doorway. “He can look as long as he likes – he’ll never find you here.”

Grantaire heart seemed to collapse, pulled inwards by some painful force he didn’t understand. “Please,” he gasped, “wait, I can help her, I can –”

“Don’t worry,” the witch smiled, not a trace of kindness behind the calculation. “You will.” She stepped backwards through the doorway, and the cellar vanished once more into darkness. The panic was absolute, heightened by the knowledge that he’d failed. He’d used up precious seconds on pointless words, and she might not come back except to kill him.

Or torture him.

Babet lifted his wand in Grantaire’s head, and Grantaire curled up on the ground and shuddered, stuffing his hand into his mouth to try and stop himself screaming. He wasn’t very successful.

The food, by the time he got to it, was stone cold and congealed. It felt like it was supposed to be a slice of some sort of pie, and Grantaire pressed himself against the bars to eat, fumbling morsels into his mouth with his fingers, gravy dripping down his palms, smearing on his chin. He brought the plate into the cage with him once he was done, licking it clean before smashing it on the ground and finding the shards with the sharpest edges.

The best time to do it would be now, while he was unguarded.

But Enjolras wouldn’t have wanted that, and Grantaire had always been too scared to try to take his own life. He wanted so badly to live.

The shards would be insurance. If the situation looked truly desperate, if he was absolutely sure there was no future for him that didn’t hold pain and mutilation and death, he would do it. The edges weren’t sharp enough to cut skin easily, but he knew where his own jugular was. As long as he stabbed himself hard enough, the witches wouldn’t be able to heal the wound in time to stop him bleeding out.

It would be a very hollow victory, but it was the only one he was likely to get now.

 

The witch returned hours later with another plate of food. “Silencio,” she snapped almost as soon as the door opened, and Grantaire’s fear seemed to snap and fall away, replaced by fury. She could at least give him a _chance_ to talk to her. Deprived of any other means of communication, he rammed his shoulders into the bars. She didn’t even flinch; just kept coming down the stairs. He snarled soundlessly, grabbing the bars in both hands and pulling, though he knew they were solidly placed.

“Back up,” she said, raising her wand. “Do it, or you’ll get much worse than a silencer.”

Fear of torture was still prevalent enough to have him retreating a couple of steps, his teeth bared like the animal he’d insisted he wasn’t. “Where’s the plate?” she asked, frowning at the ground where she’d left it.

Grantaire just glared when she looked at him, and they fought a silent battle before she eventually made a sound of disgust and flicked her wand, breaking her spell. “I can help your sister,” he burst out immediately. “Really help her, not whatever bullshit you’re going to try.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to try.” She lit the tip of her wand and scowled. “Where’s the plate?”

The shards were hidden under the blanket, out of sight, and Grantaire shook his head. “What are you going to try? I guarantee it won’t work. There’s no cure for this.”

“Then how the fuck are you going to help?” Her voice cracked like a whip, and Grantaire flinched.

“The man you saw me with, he can help her. He’s writing a book about werewolves, he can pay you for information, you can get out of the country, away from the Patron-Minette, away from everything. He’s been helping me, please –”

“Accio plate.” When nothing happened, she hissed angrily. “What have you done with it?”

“He can help you!” Grantaire cried. “I can take you to him!”

“And why would you do that?” She finally looked at him, dark eyes cold.

He didn’t try lying. “Because it would save my life, and help out a fellow werewolf.”

“Azelma is nothing like you.”

 _Azelma_ , was it? Grantaire took a step forward, drawing on reserves of courage he hadn’t known he’d possessed. “Only because she’s got you protecting her,” he growled. “She’s just like me now. Are you going to put her down here on the full moon? Going to keep her as a handy investment, sell her fur and claws on the side?”

“How _dare_ you –”

“She’s no better than me!” Grantaire shouted. “If I’m a dog, then so is she! I can help her, let me help!”

“You’d run the second you could,” she sneered. “Filthy animals like you –”

“Filthy animals like _her_ ,” he countered. “It’ll work better than whatever you’ve got in mind, trust me.”

“Never trust a werewolf.”

“Never trust a hunter.”

They glared at each other in silence for three long seconds, and then the witch lifted the plate of what looked like more pie, and turned it so that the food slid off and fell to the ground. Grantaire couldn’t help the little intake of breath he let out as it hit the floor with a wet splat. “Oh dear,” the witch said calmly. “How clumsy of me. Never mind.” She turned and started to head back upstairs.

“No,” Grantaire whispered, then lurched forward and reached uselessly after her. “Wait! Please, wait, I can help!”

Too late.

At least this time he wasn’t consumed by memories. Grantaire cursed and went back to the blanket, shivering. It had to be Friday evening now, hours past the time he should have been meeting Enjolras. Would he be worried? Would he be looking for Grantaire right now?

It wouldn’t help, even if he was. Wherever he was, the witches who had caught him were obviously certain of their security, and Grantaire could hardly blame them. There were thousands of cellars in Paris alone, and for all he knew, he wasn’t in Paris at all anymore.

 

A loud bang jerked Grantaire out of the light sleep he’d been drifting in, and he squinted against the light from the door at the top of the stairs for the couple of seconds it was there. Then it vanished, replaced by a familiar glow at the tip of a wand, the wand held aloft by the werewolf hunter, Azelma. She was nervous, Grantaire could tell from her quick breathing and darting eyes, and she hissed at him when he came forward to wrap his hands around the bars of his cage. “Back up, dog.”

“Says the bitch,” Grantaire snorted. “What’re you hiding from?”

“Who says I’m hiding?”

“Common fucking sense, that’s who.” His fear was barely there, frustration and anger keeping it in check as he studied Azelma, taking in her pinched mouth and too-tight grip on her wand. “Did your sister tell you what I said earlier?”

“Shut up.”

“Whatever magic you think will cure you won’t work. Don’t you think people would’ve heard about it if a cure existed?”

“I said quiet!” She pointed her wand at him, and he lifted an arm over his eyes, squinting against the glare.

“I’m being quiet,” he whispered. “Look, quiet as anything.” After a wary pause, when she didn’t curse him, Grantaire took a breath and pushed on. It wasn’t like he had any better options. “You know there isn’t a cure.” She didn’t reply, and he pressed himself against the bars, getting as close as he could. “This was her idea, right? Your sister’s?”

“What do you care?”

“Really?” He smacked his free hand against a bar, scowling. “She dragged me down here, you made this my problem.”

“I – shhhh!” She flattened herself against the wall, pointing her wand at the ground and staring up at the door. Now he was listening for it, Grantaire could hear voices. Azelma’s sister, and a stranger. A man.

“You don’t have to do this,” Grantaire hissed desperately. “You know all that rubbish about us being mindless animals is bullshit now, you know for sure, you’re the proof of it! Let me help!”

“No one can help!” she snarled, turning on him, and they both jumped when the door burst open.

“Found you.” The man at the top of the stairs wasn’t someone Grantaire recognised. His silhouette was thin and tall, his voice smooth, his steps graceful as he descended into the cellar. As he stepped down, the light illuminated his beautiful robes and handsome face “What’s going on, Zelma? Why hide down here with the wolf?”

Grantaire shrank back against the wall. He’d dared to push Azelma and her sister, but this man was an unknown, and everything about him screamed danger.

Azelma swallowed, and her sister spoke from the top of the stairs. “It’s our prize, not yours.”

“Like your father will care either way?” The man’s lip curled, and Grantaire watched in silence as he gave Azelma a once-over, narrowing his eyes. “You’ve been gone since the full moon,” he murmured, so quiet it was almost inaudible.

“Because we caught –” Azelma’s sister started, and the man hissed.

“ _Liar_. Don’t lie to me, Éponine.”

Éponine held her tongue, and for several long seconds, silence reigned in the cellar. Then Azelma spoke. “I’ve been bitten.”

“No!” Éponine broke from her place at the top of the stairs, rushing down. “Don’t listen to her, she’s not –”

“Be quiet,” the man said, but Éponine pushed him, physically pushed him away from Azelma.

“You don’t give me orders!” she snarled. “You lay a finger on her and I’ll kill you, Parnasse, with or without my wand.”

Parnasse tilted his head, and then looked at Grantaire, who stared back like a rabbit at a fox. Those eyes pinned him, assessed him, noted every detail before releasing him. Grantaire clenched his jaw and bit his tongue, swallowing any sounds of fear that threatened to escape. He’d had hope with Azelma and Éponine. Their situation in some ways reflected what his own had once been. This man reflected nothing.

“Why the werewolf?” he asked softly.

“Because Éponine’s an idiot,” Azelma muttered.

Éponine ignored her. “He might be useful,” she told Parnasse. “There’s an old spell I found that says it’s a cure. You need to get another werewolf mid-transformation, nail its feet and jaw to branches of yew and make a potion of its liver and brain.”

Grantaire shivered despite his best efforts to hold still. None of them noticed.

“You honestly think that will work?” Parnasse didn’t sound impressed.

“If it doesn’t, I’ll try something else,” Éponine snapped. “She’s not any different! She hasn’t changed, she’s the same Azelma.” She closed her eyes for a second, and gave Grantaire the briefest glance before looking back at Parnasse. “I don’t know if we were wrong about all of them, but Azelma hasn’t changed. Not yet, anyway. There’s still a chance.”

“You always said you’d rather die than live as a werewolf,” Parnasse reminded her.

“I’ve changed my mind.”

“Clearly.”

“Montparnasse.” Azelma spoke up, her voice quiet. “You know what’ll happen if they catch me. He won’t care I’m his daughter.”

“Parnasse,” Éponine whispered, but he cut her off with a slash of his hand through the air.

“Quiet! I’m thinking.” Nobody said a word for almost a minute. Eventually, Grantaire had to sink to the ground, his legs trembling too much to hold him up. He didn’t want to die down here. He certainly didn’t want to die in the horrific way Éponine had planned for him. He flinched when the movement made Montparnasse (named after the cemetery perhaps?) look at him, but it at least seemed to snap the wizard out of his reverie, and his next focus was Azelma.

“How did we meet?”

Azelma blinked, shivering in the cellar’s cold. “What?”

“How did we meet, Azelma?” Montparnasse repeated, and Grantaire watched as he asked her question after question, checking her memories and powers of reason, testing whether she was still human enough to risk saving. They’d met through her father, apparently, and Grantaire had to bite back a sound of fear when they spoke his name – Thénardier. There were others as well. Gueulemer was mentioned, and someone called Claquesous, another called Brujon, and when Azelma said Babet, Grantaire pressed his hand over his nose and mouth, stopping the terrified moan that rose in his throat.

“Don’t you think I’ve done this already?” Éponine snapped eventually. “She’s the same, Parnasse! She hasn’t changed at all! But our father won’t care, he won’t listen, maman will go along with him the way she always does, and the others will…” She shook her head urgently. “You know how they treat new arrivals. They can’t do that to Azelma.”

But they’d done it to him. Grantaire’s whole world had narrowed to a pinhead’s width, focused on only one thing. Babet was here. Babet would find him. Babet would hurt him, make him scream until he couldn’t make a sound, make his body writhe until it was bruised all over. Babet would catch him and torture him, impassive eyes drinking in his pain, long fingers delicate on the handle of his wand as he lifted it up for more.

He was silent in his panic, hands still clamped over his mouth, his nose barely free enough to draw breath. He was rocking against the wall slightly, but none of them had noticed him yet. They were still talking, arguing, and their voices were a jumble of sounds that made no sense. Grantaire’s muscles locked up, trembling as if he was running. Everything in him was tense. Everything in him was afraid.

The tone of the voices changed, and Grantaire tried to force his brain to understand what was happening. Azelma was sagging against the wall, Éponine was smiling, Montparnasse was shaking his head and looking over, suddenly, at Grantaire. His voice asked a question, and Grantaire stared at him, too scared to comprehend.

“Dog!” Éponine whacked a bar with her hand, and Grantaire flinched, hearing her voice as though it came from a great distance. “Answer him!”

“Babet.” Grantaire peeled his fingers from his mouth and wrapped them around his knees instead. “Not Babet, please, don’t leave me here for him, not Babet…”

Montparnasse cocked his head. “Well isn’t that interesting. Did you know they’d met before?” he asked Éponine, who shook her head.

“Shut up,” she snapped at Grantaire. “Forget Babet. If you want to get out, you’d better get talking. Were you serious about that rich reporter paying us for information?”

Grantaire nodded shakily, his heart in his throat. “Enjolras.”

“Whatever. Will he help us? You swear it?”

Another nod. “I can take you to him.” Things were becoming clearer now they were looking at him, their voices sounding real. “Let me out.”

“Get up,” Éponine said, jerking her wand. “On your feet. You even think of turning on us, I’ll tie you up and leave you here for the rest of them.”

“Don’t.” Grantaire struggled up, his hands on the rough wall. “Don’t, I’m not –”

“Shut up. Hands together in front of you.” She waited until he’d stretched his arms out, their trembling very visible in the light from Azelma’s wand, then flicked her wand and conjured a rope to bind his wrists together. “You stay right there,” she muttered, and waved her wand again. Three of the bars between them melted away, and she, Azelma, and Montparnasse backed up. “Walk out, slowly.”

Grantaire shuffled forwards in a sort of daze. Perhaps Enjolras might have been able to turn the tables somehow, to grab one of their wands and fight them all off, but Grantaire wasn’t Enjolras. It was all he could do to stay upright. On this side of the bars, he was suddenly very aware of how undressed he was compared to them – they’d taken him from his bed, and all he was wearing were shorts and a t-shirt.

He followed at Éponine’s command, leaving the cellar behind and emerging into an empty room, lit by a large window that opened onto a courtyard. He didn’t have time to see more than that before he was ordered on into another room, a shabby living room where Éponine and Azelma had obviously been living. Dirty bowls and plates were strewn across the floor and the table in the centre, and there were blankets and pillows on the sofa.

“They’ll find you soon enough,” Montparnasse told them quietly. “If I did, you know they won’t be far behind. I won’t stall them, but I won’t help either.”

“Thank you.” Éponine kept her wand on Grantaire as Azelma darted around, gathering whatever they needed and shoving it into a grubby sack. “I won’t forget this.”

“Neither will I. Get going, Ponine. Don’t contact me again.”

She nodded, and narrowed her eyes at Grantaire. “Dog! What’s the address we’re going to?”

“Rue Bonaccord.” Grantaire sucked in a fortifying breath. “Number twenty-five.”

“Which apartment?”

Grantaire shook his head. “Protected. Foyer fire only.” He didn’t know if that was true, but he didn’t want Éponine and Azelma stepping directly into Enjolras’ apartment. They would know where he lived either way, but Grantaire wasn’t working with logic right now.

“Fine.” Éponine nodded at Azelma, who pointed her wand at the empty grate in the fireplace. Flames burst into life, whooshing up before banking down. It jogged something in Grantaire’s mind, and he looked around, frowning absently.

“Wand. My wand…”

Éponine laughed, a humourless sound. “If you think I’m giving you a wand, you’re even stupider than you look. You go first, dog, and Zelma’s going to be a second behind you. Try anything, and she’ll make you wish you were dead.” Her wand twitched, and the rope around Grantaire’s wrists disappeared.

He didn’t even have the energy to shudder. He took a pinch of Floo powder from the little bag Azelma carefully held out to him, and stepped up to the fire. He’d have to duck to get in, but that hardly mattered. “Twenty-five Rue Bonaccord,” he said as loudly as he could, and threw the powder down. The flames blazed green, and he stepped in with his eyes closed against the ash.

He stepped out onto the black and white tiled floor of the familiar foyer. The porter looked up from her newspaper and raised a single eyebrow at his state of undress. Grantaire got out of the way of the grate in time for Azelma to follow him through, her wand fixing on him immediately, angling her body to hide it from the porter. A second later Éponine appeared and nodded at Grantaire as she brushed ash off her robes. “Lead the way.”

Four days with almost no food and relatively little water had left him weaker than expected. He clung to the banister on the way up, taking deep breaths and trying to ignore Éponine and Azelma behind him as he forced himself on. He could only hope that Enjolras wouldn’t suffer for this.

On the third floor, Grantaire approached Enjolras’ door slowly, feeling almost like he was floating, caught in the space between the safety of Enjolras’ apartment and the threat of the Thénardier sisters in the stairwell. His hand was pale against the dark wood of the door, and it shook as he curled it into a loose fist and knocked.

He heard footsteps a second before it was pulled open, and Enjolras was there, Enjolras was gasping in relief and hugging him tightly, and Grantaire experienced a second of shock before he hugged back, pressing his face into Enjolras’ shoulder and breathing in, trying not to shake. Enjolras smelled of smoke from his fire, the fabric of his robes warm and soft.

“Where have you _been?_ ” Enjolras demanded, not letting go of him. “I waited for hours, Aire, where were you? And who are they?” He drew away, his hand going to his wand even as he stared at Azelma. “You found another?”

“Inside,” Grantaire muttered, and Enjolras let him slip past, heading for the chair by the fire before changing his mind and going for the kitchen. It was very neat, and bigger than Grantaire had expected, with a wooden table and four chairs in the middle. There were tiles on the walls above the counters decorated with repeating patterns, pans hanging above labelled pots saying things like _sugar_ and _rice_. “I’ll pay you back,” he called as Enjolras and the Thénardiers came in. “Can I eat something? I’m starving.” Normality had washed over him in a great wave, bearing his fear away. Enjolras would keep him safe now.

“Help yourself.” Enjolras sounded very confused, and more than a little suspicious. “What’s going on, Aire?”

Grantaire grabbed half a baguette from the bread bin and brought it in, tearing a chunk off with his teeth and chewing quickly. “They’re hunters,” he mumbled through the bread. “They captured me.”

Enjolras turned on them immediately, and before anyone could say anything, Éponine and Azelma’s wands were flying out of their hands. “Don’t move,” Enjolras snarled as they made to get them. “Aire, get the wands.”

Grantaire swallowed and obeyed, taking another bite of the baguette as he did. “They need your help,” he said, collapsing into the armchair by the fire. “Azelma’s been bitten, they’re on the run from their gang. Remember I told you about the Patron-Minette? They can probably tell you a lot more.”

“Sit.” Enjolras jerked his wand towards the sofa, and the sisters sat, their expressions blank. In clear light, the similarities between them were diluted. The hair and the eyes were the same, but everything else was different. Azelma was shorter, stronger-looking, with a rounder face. Éponine looked as though she’d spent as much of her life on the run as Grantaire had, gaunt face and skinny build making her look sharp and unkind.

“I told them you’d help them,” Grantaire said, the baguette almost gone now. Enjolras snorted, and Grantaire managed to smile. It felt like a foreign expression.

“Did they hurt you?” Enjolras asked, glaring at Éponine and Azelma.

Grantaire sighed. “I’ve had worse captors.”

“ _Did they hurt you?_ ”

“No.” Not the way Enjolras was thinking, anyway. “They were pretty shit about feeding me, but like I said, I’ve had much worse.” He popped the end of the baguette into his mouth and chewed quickly. “They need money, Enjolras. Pay them, get their information, then let them go. Azelma’s one of us now anyway.”

“I’m nothing like you,” Azelma snarled, and Enjolras took a step forward.

“You’re right,” he said coldly. “I’d never torture and kill innocent people for profit. You and I are nothing alike.”

Grantaire pushed himself to his feet. “Can I have more food?” he asked quietly. Enjolras nodded, and Grantaire slunk back into the kitchen, steeling himself against the awkwardness of going through Enjolras’ cupboards. One was enchanted to be cold, and Grantaire took out cheese and a plate of ham, getting another baguette from the bread bin and cutting it up properly this time.

While he worked, Éponine started to talk in the living room in a murmur too low for Grantaire to make out the words. He was too tired to care, too hungry to think of anything but the plate of food he was building up. But he wasn’t scared anymore, not now that Enjolras had disarmed the Thénardiers and they were all safe in his apartment. He poured himself a glass of water and drained it before refilling it and coming out to the living room again.

“– America,” Éponine was saying. “It’s the only place we’d have a real chance. We’ve got no qualifications or anything like that, and if they find us they’ll kill Zelma and probably me for trying to stop them.”

“Don’t be stupid.” Azelma’s head was lowered. “They’d put you in with me on a full moon to get another werewolf. Breeding females – papa would shit himself with delight.”

Grantaire immediately backed into the kitchen again, sitting at the table to eat instead. He didn’t like not being able to see Enjolras, but any more talk like that and his mind would drag him back to Sachsenwald. He shut out the Thénardier sisters’ voices and concentrated on eating instead, slowly filling his empty stomach. He couldn’t seem to focus on more than one thing at a time, his usual fear and wariness becoming formless, unable to take shape or substance. Like smoke, they were frail, barely there at all, and after he’d eaten it seemed perfectly natural to pillow his head on his arms, expecting them to rise up the way they normally did when his mind was quiet.

They didn’t. Perhaps it was simply that he had no energy left to expend on anything that wasn’t breathing. His eyes closed, and it felt like only a second later Enjolras was waking him, a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Aire? Aire, are you alright?”

“Mmm. Tired.” Grantaire yawned and grimaced as he straightened up, his neck aching. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. Éponine and Azelma have agreed to answer all of my questions. Do you have anything you want to ask them?”

“No.” Grantaire rubbed his eyes. “Definitely not. I don’t want to know anything they can tell me.”

“Alright. You should sleep, come on.” He picked up the empty plate and glass and put them on the counter. “You can use my bed.”

Grantaire didn’t have it in him to protest. “Can I use your bathroom first?” he asked, too tired to even be embarrassed.

“Oh, of course – I know I’d want a bath after four days in a cellar.” The anger in his voice wasn’t directed at Grantaire, but he still shrank to hear it. Enjolras didn’t notice, leading him through the living room (neither of them looked at the Thénardiers on the sofa) to the little hall opposite. The door on the right opened onto a decently sized bathroom, and Enjolras pointed at a closet in the wall inside. “There are towels in there, and I’ll find you something to wear, one moment.”

Grantaire watched, too sluggish to do more, as Enjolras went into the door on the left. His bedroom, from what Grantaire could see, was the same size as the bathroom, the walls as covered in pictures as the living room. A large double bed was directly opposite the door, and Grantaire stared at it while Enjolras was out of sight. He returned a few seconds later holding a pair of pyjamas. “They should fit you,” he said, giving Grantaire a small smile as he put them down on a chair in the bathroom. “I’ll be in the living room. Obviously. Just shout if you need anything.”

“Thank you.”

Enjolras hovered, and Grantaire thought for a second that he might hug him again, but then he just smiled awkwardly and slipped past him, going back to Éponine and Azelma. Grantaire took a breath and locked himself in the bathroom. He’d only intended to wash his hands and face and indulge in the luxury of using toilet paper, but if Enjolras expected him to have a bath…

The tub wasn’t very long, but it was deep, and Grantaire grabbed a jug from the cupboard with the towels and stripped, standing naked in the bath to wash off the worst of the grime before filling it up properly. It was deliciously hot, the comfort of it almost enough to move him to tears as he knelt down and let the water rise up over him.

Everything was going to be alright. His mind still couldn’t seem to hold onto any of his fears and anxieties, the unpleasant hitch of them slipping out of his grasp like water through his fingers. He stayed in the bath until the heat became too much and he had to stand up, steam rising from his skin in delicate tendrils.

Enjolras’ towels were soft and cream-coloured, the pyjamas he’d left pale blue and light, the finest things Grantaire had worn in a long, long time. He stole and bought clothes for their durability, not for how they felt against his skin. But these were wonderful, making him feel almost weightless as he draped the towel over the back of the chair to dry and cautiously unlocked the bathroom door.

Éponine’s low voice didn’t pause as he opened the door, and he stepped between the bathroom and Enjolras’ bedroom in two quick strides, not wanting to be seen. It was blessedly dark inside, and Grantaire couldn’t even find the energy to give the room more than a cursory look before crawling into the bed, his eyes closed before his head even hit the pillow.

It was so much nicer than the bed in his apartment. No noisy springs, no uncomfortable lumps, no bad smells. Just pure comfort, the coverlet the perfect thickness as he pulled it up to his shoulder and curled up on his side, pressing his face against the sheets. His stubble was prickly and a bit itchy, but apart from that this was paradise. He was almost asleep when there was a soft knock at the door.

“Mmmnuhh?” Grantaire rolled onto his back, forcing his eyes open as the door opened a crack and Enjolras looked in.

“Hi,” he whispered. “I just wanted to check if you were alright. I…I shouldn’t have disturbed you, sorry.”

“I knew your bed would be nice,” Grantaire told him sleepily, failing to stifle a yawn.

“Thought about it a lot, have you?” Enjolras smiled, then looked down, an odd, apologetic expression flitting across his face. “I’ll leave you alone. Go back to sleep, Aire.”

“Grantaire.” It seemed important, suddenly, to tell Enjolras this, and Grantaire struggled to keep his eyes open as he said it. “Grantaire Baudet. That’s my name.”

The smile Enjolras gave him was so bright Grantaire could barely look at it. Bright and beautiful and somehow proud, as though Grantaire had achieved something noteworthy just by telling him his name. “Go back to sleep, Grantaire,” he whispered, and Grantaire closed his eyes obediently as the door closed, warmth tingling in his chest at the sound of his full name on Enjolras’ lips.

 

When Grantaire woke, it was light outside, the curtains over the windows illuminated. His stomach was empty again, but there was a difference between being hungry and knowing no food would come, and being hungry and knowing that he could eat as soon as he got up. This hunger wasn’t urgent or painful. It was almost satisfying.

Enjolras’ bedroom wasn’t exactly how he had imagined. Grantaire sat up and looked around, drinking in every detail the dim light could provide. It was smaller than he had thought it would be; less luxurious, less colourful. The walls behind the numerous picture frames were pale and plain, the dresser and wardrobe in cheaper wood than Enjolras’ desk and sofa and chairs in the living room. It was as if he’d made an effort for the parts he knew other people would see, and bothered less with what would be used by him alone. There wasn’t even a mirror.

Grantaire slid slowly out of the bed (which wasn’t a four-poster) and ran a hand down his front, verifying that he really had fallen asleep in Enjolras’ pyjamas. They were a little long at the ankle, but other than that they fit him surprisingly well. He wriggled his toes, smiling down at the way the soft carpet felt against them, his smile growing as he realised how good he felt.

He wasn’t in a cage. Nothing bad had happened overnight. The cloud of bleak despair that usually hung over his head was gone, the constant fear and tension only memories. It would probably return, he knew, but for now it was okay. The thing he’d been dreading had finally happened, and he’d come out of it in one piece. He had to bite back the urge to laugh, and released the energy by instead going to the window and pushing the curtains open.

Enjolras’ apartment was at the back of the building, looking down onto a courtyard that Grantaire guessed was shared by at least two other blocks. Greenery hid most of it, but what was visible of the cobbles below had been rained on recently. Everything was quiet and serene, the windows of the other apartments all dark and unoccupied. Grantaire might have been the only person in the world.

The only person apart from Enjolras. He smiled and went over to the dresser, which was covered in more pictures, all photographs this time, in frames of various shapes and sizes. Grantaire recognised several faces from the regulars at the Corinthe, but there were others as well with a lot of people he’d never seen before. And there were a few of Enjolras as a child, one with what had to be both his parents. Grantaire didn’t touch the picture, but he bent low to examine it.

This Enjolras was barely more than a toddler. Chubby and almost white-blonde, he was sitting on the shoulders of a man with a short mane of sandy hair, giggling happily at the camera. The man was grinning, and at his side a shorter woman with hair the same shade of gold Enjolras possessed now smiled up at both of them, occasionally reaching up to steady her small son.

There was an alarm clock on the dresser, Grantaire noticed after a moment of scanning the rest of the photographs. According to the clock face, it was almost eleven, which meant he’d slept for over twelve hours. He hadn’t even dreamed.

He listened at the door before opening it, and once he was in the little hall, he could hear a quill scratching on parchment. The Thénardiers seemed to be gone, and Enjolras sounded like he was at his desk. Grantaire slipped into the bathroom as quietly as he could, but there wasn’t anything he could do about the sound of the toilet flushing a minute later, though he didn’t mind as much as he would have normally. Enjolras knew he was here, after all. He didn’t need to hide.

Enjolras was at his desk in dark red robes, and he looked up with a smile when Grantaire appeared. “I hope you slept well. Éponine and Azelma are gone. They left late last night – I can hardly blame them for wanting to get a head start, but it’s a shame I won’t be able to ask them anything else if I need to. Are you hungry?”

Grantaire nodded, something light fluttering in his chest. “Yeah.”

“Good, so am I.” Enjolras got up, pausing to check Grantaire would follow before he went to the kitchen. “I need to go shopping really, but I’ve got plenty of eggs, if you like those. Jehan gives them to me in bulk – you know he has chickens?”

“Yeah.” Grantaire cleared his throat, lingering in the doorway as Enjolras pulled things out of drawers and cupboards with the easy familiarity of someone used to the space they inhabited. “Yeah, he’s told me.”

“They come out in funny colours sometimes, but they always taste fine,” Enjolras went on, tapping the stove with his wand and setting a pan on top of the flames. “Are scrambled eggs alright? I tend to mess up anything else.”

“No, that’s…great, that’s fine. Can I do anything?”

“You could make tea.” Enjolras looked over his shoulder at him and smiled, handing him a large copper kettle. “Tea leaves are in that pot there, mugs in that cupboard in front of you.”

Enjolras’ teapot shivered under Grantaire’s fingers when he touched the handle. “How many cups?” it gurgled in a watery sort of voice.

“Um…” Grantaire shot Enjolras a quizzical look, and Enjolras smiled.

“Tell it four, just in case.”

“Four?” Grantaire repeated uncertainly, and the teapot gurgled again and then _grew_ , the lid tinkling against the pot as the china stretched until it would easily hold enough water for four large cups of tea.

“It was a present from Combeferre,” Enjolras explained, cracking eggs into the pan. “Very handy for when people come over – it can grow to hold about fifteen cups, though at that point it becomes a bit difficult to lift.”

Grantaire nodded, and inspected the teapot suspiciously for a few seconds before reaching out and lifting the lid off. Inside, it was spotlessly clean, and Grantaire put the lid on the counter and looked around until he saw a drawer he guessed was for cutlery. Tealeaves were spooned into the teapot, and Grantaire watched Enjolras at the stove until the kettle began to whistle. He had to step close to retrieve it, and he couldn’t bring himself to look at more than Enjolras’ hands, the feeling in his chest getting worse (better?) at their proximity.

Of course, once they were sat opposite each other at the kitchen table, each with a plate of scrambled eggs on toast and a cup of tea, there was no way to avoid looking at him. Perhaps it was the way Enjolras was dressed while Grantaire was only in his borrowed pyjamas, or the slight breeze coming through the open window, but he felt oddly fragile, his body lighter than usual, his skin more sensitive. Maybe it was the way Enjolras kept looking at him, like he was something special or lovely.

“I’ll try and find you some clothes,” Enjolras said as they ate. “I don’t suppose there’s any way of getting back to your apartment?”

Grantaire shook his head, trying to concentrate on practicalities. “That’s where they took me from. I’m not going back there again. Did they have my wand?” he thought to ask. “They wouldn’t give it back when I asked, I haven’t seen it since they took me.” He could blame his days of imprisonment for the lapse – he’d obviously gotten out of the habit of reaching for his wand the moment he woke up.

Enjolras frowned, and Grantaire’s shoulders slumped. “They said they’d left everything unnecessary behind when they came here,” he said. “I assume they included your wand in that. I’m sorry, Aire.”

“It’s not your fault.” Grantaire looked down, surprised to find that the news didn’t panic him the way it should have done. “It wasn’t a great wand anyway. I stole it after escaping from the hunters in Germany. It never really took to me.”

“You can buy a new one.” Enjolras brightened. “Musichetta’s always saying that the only wand worth having is one that chooses you itself. She doesn’t believe in inheriting them.”

Grantaire nodded. Musichetta had started studying wandmaking that year, and although there were a lot of trade secrets she couldn’t reveal, she still told them as much as she could. “They’re expensive though.”

“You’ll be able to afford it with the compensation money.”

Grantaire didn’t understand for a moment, staring at Enjolras’ bent head as he cut up his toast. Then it came to him, and he shook his head. “No, I can’t take that.”

“You were discovered,” Enjolras said calmly, not looking up. “We agreed that if that happened, I would pay you thirty galleons. It’s the least I can do, considering what you went through.”

“I’m fine,” Grantaire sniped, shovelling eggs into his mouth before they could go cold, chewing quickly so he could keep arguing. “All they did was starve me a bit, it’s not worth thirty galleons.”

“Then I’ll pour the money in a lake.” Enjolras met his eyes, and Grantaire’s heart twisted. There was a beat of silence, and the corner of Enjolras’ lips turned up – he knew he had Grantaire in a bind now. “It was part of the agreement. You were caught, so I’m paying you. I’ll have to go to the bank first though,” he added, sounding guilty. “I don’t have that much in the apartment.”

Grantaire felt like his brain was finally catching up with him. “Your apartment. Is it protected?”

“My fire’s not hooked up to Floo –”

“Montparnasse knows your address.” Grantaire put his cutlery down, head spinning. “If he tells the rest of Patron-Minette –”

“Éponine and Azelma were very sure that he wouldn’t.”

“Like that means anything. You can’t trust them.”

“I already have. _Grantaire_.” The use of his full name snapped Grantaire out of his growing panic, and he stared at Enjolras. “It’s alright. I’ve let Madame Chastal know not to let anyone unfamiliar up to my room. She’s the porter,” he added, seeing Grantaire’s confusion. “This sort of thing has happened before, people trying to find me at home and threaten me. All my mail is sent to my office, and no one can Apparate in here. It’s going to be fine. Finish your breakfast.”

Grantaire lifted his fork to his mouth without thinking. “How do you know Montparnasse won’t tell them where you live?”

“Éponine told me that he’s very particular about his loyalties. Much of it he gives to her father and the rest of their gang, but he’s loyal to the sisters as well, in his way. He’s not going to stop being a criminal or help them more than he has, but he won’t help their parents find them either. I have to trust their judgement of his character, since I’ve not met the man myself.” Enjolras sipped his tea, apparently unconcerned by the threat Montparnasse posed. “You didn’t tell the sisters I was a werewolf,” he said after a moment.

“Didn’t I?” Grantaire frowned and thought back, trying to remember what he’d said in the cellar. “Hm. I was going to – I suppose they didn’t give me time.”

“It’s good you didn’t.” Enjolras started on his toast again. “They didn’t know, so Montparnasse doesn’t either, and by extension, nor does the rest of Patron-Minette. I think they’re unlikely to try and attack me if they think I’m a respectable, normal wizard who would bring down the full force of the Ministry down on their heads if he could. And if that wouldn’t sway them, my being a journalist would. If the Ministry had its attention turned elsewhere, I could simply speak my mind in the Magie Aujourd’hui.”

His words were clipped, anger carefully reigned in and directed somewhere that wasn’t Grantaire. Unwilling to provoke an outburst, Grantaire tried to change the subject. “What are you going to do today?”

“Well, it depends on you, really.” Enjolras finished his eggs and toast and looked at Grantaire as he swallowed. “If you want your compensation purse today, I’ll need to go to La Cour.”

Grantaire jerked his head in the negative before he really knew what he was doing. “It’s dangerous,” he muttered, trying to sound like he knew what he was talking about.

“I’ll have to leave the apartment at some point,” Enjolras pointed out, though he sounded like he was smiling. “I don’t mind staying in today though. I have a lot to write up after last night.”

Grantaire hesitated, then asked, “Is that what you’d be doing if I wasn’t here?”

“Yes. It’s Sunday, so I wouldn’t be going into the office today. The only other thing I’d be doing is shopping or seeing the others. You’re welcome to stay.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course. You said you can’t go back to your apartment – unless you have any other hideaways nearby?” He paused, and went on when Grantaire shook his head. “We can go to La Cour together to get you a new wand then. I can make sure nothing happens to you on the way.”

He appeared to have thought of everything, and when Grantaire considered arguing, a wave of reluctance swept through him. It was so tiring, trying to do everything on his own. Enjolras had made good points, and if his apartment was as well-protected as he said, this was probably the safest place Grantaire could be. Instinct told him he should get Enjolras to take him to La Cour today, that any delay in getting a new wand was foolish to the point of suicidal, but the same gut-deep calmness from the night before just wouldn’t allow his fears to take root.

“Alright.” He looked down at his half-finished breakfast, smiling slightly. “Thank you.”

“It’s the least I can do. I’m going to keep writing – just leave everything in the sink, I’ll set it washing up later. If you change your mind about going out, just say.” He gave Grantaire a smile so bright it made him blink, and put his plate and cutlery in the sink before going back out to the living room.

It took Grantaire a while to work up the courage to follow him when he was done, sliding through the doorway in silence, his eyes fixed on the back of Enjolras’ head. The desk was covered in parchment and paperweights, his quill dancing as he wrote, looking up every now and then to check something he’d already noted down somewhere else.

Grantaire moved quietly over to the nearest window and looked out, down onto the courtyard. The day had turned overcast, threatening rain, and Grantaire retreated and cleared his throat. “Can I read something?”

Enjolras looked over his shoulder at him, then nodded and waved his quill at the bookshelf so eagerly he sent ink drops flying through the air. “Of course. Whatever you like.”

“Thanks.” Grantaire was careful to study the books from a distance before putting himself within arm’s reach of Enjolras to pick one out. Usually, he would have taken something useful, like a spell book, but he didn’t have a wand to practice with, and for once he didn’t want to think about survival skills. So _On the Wings of Dragons_ it was. He’d seen this book in the houses of other wizards and witches, and admired the cover. He’d never expected to ever be able to actually read it.

When he went to sit on the sofa, he saw that Enjolras had put some robes out for him, so he left the book and went to change. The blue pyjamas had been nice to sleep in, but they felt unsettlingly thin now he was awake. Enjolras had provided him with two sets of robes, one in shades of dark green and white, the other in deep reds and yellows. The greens were darker, so Grantaire pulled them on, smoothing them down with uncertain hands.

He’d worn Muggle clothes for too long – wearing nothing but underwear ( _Enjolras’_ underwear) underneath what Muggles would consider a dress felt very strange. His own robes had been made for outdoor wear, but these were lounging robes, the material breathable and loose, not intended to be worn outside. The weight of the hem was barely discernible – when Grantaire gave a testing spin, the robes whooshed out in an elegant circle around his ankles.

He’d never worn robes like this in his whole life.

Grantaire shook his head and pulled on a pair of thick black socks with a little more force than necessary, his fingers fanning out to brush against the robes as he left the bedroom.

He settled down on the sofa to read, disappointed to discover that _On the Wings of Dragons_ was fiction, but intrigued enough to keep reading. He hadn’t read anything that wasn’t strictly practical for years. He’d tried Muggle fiction, but it just depressed him, making him feel like he was trying to fit into a world that wasn’t his. This was different. This was about a witch and a wizard in the late nineteenth century, meeting on an expedition to capture the elusive Mexican Amphithere, a dragon in South America.

A few chapters in, he spoke without thinking. “Is this based on real life?”

“Hm? Oh.” Enjolras brightened when he saw what Grantaire was reading. “No, not really. I mean, it was around that time that the Mexican Amphithere was discovered by Europeans and the first specimens were captured, but there never was a Marie-Iphigenie Martel or an Achille Lejeune. All the characters are made up. Do you like it?”

Grantaire shrugged. “So far.”

“It gets better,” Enjolras encouraged. “Keep going.”

Grantaire fought back a smile and lifted the book to hide his face. Only when Enjolras had turned back to his desk did he let himself grin.

When Enjolras got up a few hours later to assemble a light afternoon lunch, Grantaire shyly followed suit, and when it got dark that evening, Enjolras lit the lamps while Grantaire closed the curtains. And when Grantaire finally put the book down, feeling as tired as though he’d been to South America to search for dragons himself, Enjolras turned around to give him an expectant look. “Well? What did you think?”

“Fuck Ghislain,” Grantaire said immediately, a huge sigh bursting out of him as he flopped back against the sofa. “Fuck Ghislain and his fucking…back-stabbing, dragon-stealing plans.”

Enjolras laughed. “What about Marie-Iphigenie and Achille?”

“I’m glad they left the dragon behind, but they should’ve killed Ghislain,” Grantaire huffed. “And probably Severin too.”

“He didn’t know what he was doing!”

“Bullshit, he knew Ghislain wasn’t planning anything good. He just wanted the money.”

Enjolras beamed. “You liked it.”

Grantaire sat up, his cheeks warm. “So?”

“I can’t wait to tell Courfeyrac.”

Grantaire frowned. “Why would he care?”

“Because he wrote it.”

“What?” Grantaire checked the cover, but the author’s name was definitely not Courfeyrac. “No he didn’t.”

“Pascal Poirier is his penname.” Enjolras sounded as smug as if _he’d_ written the damn book. “One of them, anyway. He’s got three now, one for each genre he writes in.”

“Oh.” Grantaire had never really thought about who wrote these sorts of things, and he looked at the cover with new eyes. “How many has he written?”

“That was his eleventh, and he’s had another one out since then, under a different name. He’s good, isn’t he?”

Grantaire had to nod, impressed. “I suppose you have all his books?”

“Of course.” Enjolras had turned to face him properly now, twisting his chair around. “I like his historical fiction best. He’s an excellent researcher – he helps me out sometimes for my work. I’m not as fond of his romances, though they’re his most popular.”

Grantaire nodded again, looking down at the book. “Did Éponine and Azelma tell you anything useful? For your book?”

Enjolras made a satisfied sound. “And then some. Getting an opposing perspective is always useful, but they gave me much more than that.” When Grantaire looked up, Enjolras was practically radiating with savage glee. “They gave me a corruption scandal. There are several Ministry officials who are in contact with Patron-Minette, and they take bribes to release information about werewolf reports. And it’s been going on for decades – my other source had suspicions regarding this matter as well, but if there was money involved, it’s more than likely that there will be records at Gringotts. This could have a massive impact, it could really make a difference to the way things are done.”

“It could put you in serious danger,” Grantaire said quietly, chilled.

“It’s worth the risk.” Enjolras waved his concern aside. “This could save dozens of lives. According to Éponine and Azelma, their father would usually be contacted by a wizard called Morjuet, who works in the Dangerous Beasts department. Money would change hands, and Morjuet would tell them where a werewolf had been sighted. Patron-Minette would use this information to pursue and capture as many werewolves as they could. Thénardier and the others have spent years building this organisation up, and they couldn’t have done it without the Ministry’s help.”

Grantaire let out a long breath. “Gros would love this.”

“I’m going to get proof,” Enjolras told him. “Bahorel’s related to goblins on his mother’s side, he might be able to help me talk to some of the Gringotts lot. If not, there are other ways of checking for records of these transactions. If I can’t get proof, I’ll publish anyway, and the uproar should prompt enough of an investigation to unearth it.”

There was a long silence, eventually broken by Enjolras clearing his throat. “I have some leftover stew we can eat for supper, if you’re hungry.”

“I…yes, please.” Maybe food would settle the anxious roiling in his stomach. Grantaire followed Enjolras into the kitchen and got them each a glass of water while Enjolras dished up two bowls of stew and warmed them up with a flick of his wand, sitting opposite Grantaire as he had that morning.

“Are you alright?” he asked Grantaire, the faintest of lines creasing his forehead. “I know the corruption news is a lot to take in –”

Grantaire snorted and shook his head, swallowing his mouthful before speaking. “To be surprised, I’d’ve had to believe the Ministry wasn’t full of shit, and I haven’t believed that for a long time.”

“I suppose that makes sense.” Enjolras poked at his food, eating slowly. “I’m more surprised by how much it surprised me,” he said after a while. “I believe that, at their core, most people are decent and essentially good. Most people believe in fairness and equality. But I suppose it’s always been the case that positions of power attract those who seek to abuse the authority they’d be granted. If someone like Morjuet honestly believes that werewolves are dangerous, immoral beasts, why wouldn’t he accept money for somebody else to take care of what he sees as a problem? He might even believe he’s doing a good thing. I hope my book will change the minds of people like him.”

“It won’t.” Grantaire couldn’t look at Enjolras, not wanting to see the inevitable disappointment his words would evoke. “People like that don’t want to change their minds, especially not if they gain from thinking the way they do. And they’ll always be right about one thing – we are dangerous.”

“For one night a month,” Enjolras retorted. “A night easily planned for. Have you ever bitten anyone?”

“No.”

“Neither have I. As long as we’re careful –”

“But if we ever slip up, even for a moment!”

“That’s why we need support,” Enjolras said fiercely. “If you force people to deal with a condition like this on their own, of course they’ll make mistakes. If I hadn’t had you, I wouldn’t have known how to prepare properly, and I might have hurt someone. But with you telling me what to expect, I didn’t panic, I did everything right, and nothing went wrong. Not every newly-bitten werewolf has another one around to guide them, and that’s our society’s fault for pushing them – us – underground, punishing us for something we have no control over. Werewolves should be helped, not persecuted.”

Grantaire gazed at him, his mostly-empty bowl of stew forgotten. It took effort to drag his eyes away, hoping Enjolras couldn’t tell how hard his heart was beating.

“You made all the difference for me,” Enjolras went on, softer. “If it wasn’t for you, I don’t know what would have happened. I’ll forever be grateful that you were willing to help. Are you finished?”

Grantaire nodded, pushing his bowl forward as Enjolras stood up and took it to the sink. He turned the tap on and muttered a spell under his breath, pointing his wand at the small pile of dirty crockery. One by one, the items began to float under the tap, and a soapy sponge cleaned them before they floated to pile haphazardly on the draining board.

Grantaire had never been able to do that. Following his line of sight, Enjolras smiled, leaning against the counter. “My mother’s much better at it. Mine sometimes need a couple of washes before they’re properly clean, and they never stack themselves nicely the way hers do. Grantaire?”

A frisson of pleasure down his spine, and Grantaire chewed his lip as he looked up at Enjolras. “Mm?” 

“Do you know what you’re going to do now?” Enjolras asked quietly. “Once you have your money and a new wand, I mean.”

Grantaire stood so they would be on the same level, steadying himself with a hand on the back of his chair. “Not really,” he admitted, looking down at Enjolras’ feet. He was wearing red socks, the colour bright against the pale wood of the kitchen floor. “I should’ve moved on months ago. If I had, I wouldn’t’ve caught Patron-Minette’s attention.”

“You wouldn’t have been able to help me either though.”

Grantaire nodded.

“Has it been worth it?” Enjolras asked, sounding almost sad. Grantaire glanced up and saw that he looked it as well. “It’s my fault they caught you, if you were staying in Paris for me.”

“I stayed for myself.” He sounded more confident than he felt, but it was still the truth. “I’ve just been more selfish than usual. At this point, I’d probably pay you for the interviews.”

“Why?” Enjolras’ apologetic expression vanished, a pleased smile taking its place. Grantaire could feel the heat rising in his face, and the instinct to deflect or distract pressed at him, but Enjolras looked so kind, and something was trembling between them, a fluttering of potential. Grantaire couldn’t bring himself to ruin it with a lie.

“It’s been nice,” he muttered, looking down at Enjolras’ socks again. “Talking to you. Seeing you. Easily worth a few days in a cellar.”

“No one’s worth being kept in a cellar.”

“Some people are.”

The invisible line between them became somehow tauter as Enjolras straightened and came to stand in front of him. “You don’t owe me anything,” he said quietly, and Grantaire settled his gaze on Enjolras’ collarbones, not daring to look any higher. “You know that, don’t you?”

Grantaire ducked his head in what might charitably be called a nod, and swallowed, closing his eyes for a second to draw on what courage he had. “I don’t need to owe you, to…to want to…” He glanced up, chest tight. Enjolras was so close, just inches away, and Grantaire wasn’t an idiot. People didn’t come this close just to talk, and all he saw in Enjolras’ face was anticipation, so he closed his eyes and leaned forward, pressing their lips together. Two seconds of contact, no more. Two seconds of Enjolras’ lips against his, soft and warm, the two of them coming together without hesitation or mistake.

When he drew back, Enjolras chased him. Long fingers brushed Grantaire’s waist, and Enjolras tilted his head to kiss him again, firmer, for longer. Grantaire’s lungs had no air in them, his body existing only where Enjolras touched. They opened their mouths and moved closer, Grantaire’s arms rising instinctively to wrap around Enjolras’ shoulders and hold on.

 _Yes_ , his body sang, arching to meet Enjolras’, feeling the ways they could fit together.  _Yes_. Heat was spreading through him like fire, everything in him lighting up, spilling over, crying out for more. And Enjolras didn’t disappoint, his hands holding tight, his mouth telling Grantaire eloquently that he was welcome, wanted.

Enjolras was vocal with his pleasure, little hums and half-gasps turning Grantaire on far more than they should have. It left no room for hesitations or maybes or doubts – Enjolras wanted this, and Grantaire choked back a gasp of his own as a hand slid into his hair, sparks dancing over his skin at the intimacy of it.

“Good?” Enjolras breathed into the gap between their lips, and Grantaire nodded.

“Good.” The urge to question and worry nudged at him, so he quickly put his mouth to better use, kissing Enjolras until they were both breathless, Grantaire pressing Enjolras against the counter and wrapping an arm around his waist to keep him there, his other hand hesitating for only a second before he cupped Enjolras’ cheek to change the angle. The tip of his thumb brushed the delicate skin beneath Enjolras’ eye, and his heart gave an extra hard thud against his lungs when Enjolras turned his head into it, his lips pressing to the heel of Grantaire’s palm in an unmistakeable kiss.

Grantaire shuddered and kissed him again, as slowly as he could bring himself to. Enjolras made an appreciative groaning sound, one of his hands clutching at Grantaire’s lower back. They were all mouths, all lips and tongues and heat and grasping hands, tight pressure against each other’s bodies. Grantaire found himself kissing with intent, pushing and pushing, silently begging, _touch me more, go further, hold me tighter._

When Enjolras bit his lower lip, Grantaire groaned, the first sound he’d made, and Enjolras’ grin was a thing of wicked triumph. He kissed Grantaire again, harder than before, and finally inched his hand below Grantaire’s waistline, just resting for a second on the curve of his ass before squeezing. Grantaire rocked forwards against him, his breath hitching at how good it felt. Enjolras did it again, pulling him into it, and Grantaire slid his hand round to the back of Enjolras’ neck, holding on for dear life.

Enjolras was ruthless, persuasive to the point of compulsion, setting his mouth to Grantaire’s neck when he broke away to breathe, teasing at leaving marks, dragging his teeth along the skin and sucking too gently to satisfy. Grantaire was burning up, dizzy, the world blurring to nothing around him. There was only Enjolras, only this.

He didn’t realise he’d pushed his fingers up into Enjolras’ hair and pulled until Enjolras let out a sharp breath against his throat, his hips twitching against Grantaire’s. When Grantaire pulled again, experimental, Enjolras rewarded him with an open-mouthed kiss against his pulse, humming with satisfaction.

Grantaire didn’t need to be told twice. He pulled out Enjolras’ hair tie as gently as he could and dropped it on the counter. He was ready for the way Enjolras moaned when he slid his whole hand into his hair and tugged, pulling his head back so Grantaire could kiss him again. They weren’t slow now, both of them losing finesse in favour of urgency, their bodies pressed so close together Grantaire could feel every single one of the ties on the front of Enjolras’ robes pressing into his skin.

To start undoing them, he would need to pull away, however briefly. Grantaire dragged his mouth from Enjolras’ and kissed his jaw, delaying the inevitable. They had time, after all. This wasn’t a drunk pick-up from a Muggle club. He didn’t want to rush, especially not when Enjolras tipped his chin back in wanton invitation. Grantaire leaned in, pressing his nose against Enjolras’ neck to catch his breath for a second before he closed his eyes and kissed the skin beneath his lips, warm and smooth, Enjolras’ pulse jumping at the touch.

Enjolras had been all wicked teeth and teasing pressure, but Grantaire took a different approach. Slower, softer, reining back the urgency of before. He kept his fingers tangled in Enjolras’ hair, tugging at unpredictable intervals and scratching his fingernails gently against Enjolras’ scalp, experimenting with pressure and controlling Enjolras’ movements to see what he liked. At the same time, he kept contact against Enjolras’ neck feather-light, brushing butterfly kisses up his jaw, tracing lines with the tip of his nose.

The suggestion of touch wound Enjolras up more than anything, Grantaire found, sliding his free hand up to run his fingertips along the line of Enjolras’ jaw. Enjolras’ eyes were half-closed, his mouth slack, breathing shallow. If Grantaire let his own breath gust against Enjolras’ skin before he kissed it, Enjolras’ chest would hitch. If he opened his mouth above Enjolras’ throat and touched his tongue very lightly to its column, Enjolras would tremble.

He’d never bothered with seduction before, but this was important. He wanted this to be good for Enjolras. He needed it to be. And if the way Enjolras couldn’t seem to help grinding against him was any indication, he wasn’t doing badly so far.

“Oh…” Enjolras’ whole body twitched when Grantaire kissed his ear, his arms around Grantaire’s waist spasming. He turned his head to press their cheeks together, and Grantaire smiled, closing his lips very gently on Enjolras’ earlobe. Enjolras groaned, shockingly loud. “Bed,” he breathed, “Aire, Grantaire, do you want –”

Grantaire cut him off with a kiss, and Enjolras seemed to come alive against him, coming out of the blissed stupor Grantaire had lulled him into. “Yes,” he muttered when they parted for a second. “Yes.”

“You don’t even –” Enjolras kissed him, interrupting himself. “– know –” Another kiss. “– what I was going to ask.”

“Don’t need to.” Grantaire tugged Enjolras’ hair lightly, grinning when it made Enjolras’ eyelids flutter. “Yes. To everything.”

“Reckless,” Enjolras murmured, kissing him like he couldn’t bear to stop for more than a second at a time.

“It’s not.” Grantaire took a breath and loosened his grip, kissing Enjolras’ jaw so he wouldn’t have to look him in the eye. “I trust you.”

Enjolras groaned as loudly as before and leaned back to catch Grantaire in another kiss. “Impossible,” he huffed against Grantaire’s lips. “You say these things…”

“Bed,” Grantaire reminded him. The thin material of their robes didn’t hide anything as they finally separated, and Enjolras laughed at the sight, taking Grantaire’s hand and grabbing his wand from the counter before pulling Grantaire out of the kitchen. The living room passed in a flash, and Enjolras kissed him as soon as they were in the bedroom, his hands flying to the buttons at the front of Grantaire’s robes.

“Can I –”

“ _Yes_.” Grantaire copied him, their fingers slow and fumbling as they distracted each other with kisses. Enjolras won the race, humming triumph into Grantaire’s mouth as he pushed green fabric off Grantaire’s shoulders. Grantaire realised just before it happened what Enjolras was about to touch, and drew back in time to see his surprise. One hand had found a normal, smooth shoulder. The other had touched scar tissue.

Grantaire hardly breathed as Enjolras leaned back to look properly, his robes gaping open unnoticed as he ran his fingers over the lumps and twists that remained of the bite that had infected Grantaire.

Grantaire didn’t remember any clear details of the event, but it was obvious that the werewolf had mauled him a bit before letting him go. The longest scar was only an inch or so long, but what lacked in size was made up for in number. The wolf had adjusted its grip on Grantaire several times, and the scars went from his shoulder to his elbow, the skin raised and uneven, yellow-brown and ugly.

He waited in silence as Enjolras rubbed his thumb over one of the biggest, and lost the breath in his lungs when Enjolras ducked his head to kiss it. “I can’t feel it,” Grantaire muttered, transfixed. Enjolras only shrugged and undid a couple of the fastenings on his own robe to push it to his waist, pulling his arms out and showing Grantaire his right forearm.

“I can’t feel mine anymore either. Apparently it’s normal.”

Grantaire took Enjolras’ arm, staring. Enjolras’ bite was much cleaner, the scars still reddish-pink. They could have been splash burns if it weren’t for the way they were arranged. A neat, perfect bite.

He didn’t want to think about werewolves. He let go of Enjolras’ arm and touched his chest instead, ghosting fingertips over skin that broke out into goosebumps at the contact. It made Enjolras grin and reach for Grantaire’s robes again, and Grantaire immediately pulled him in for another kiss.

It was better with more skin exposed. Like this, Grantaire could feel how warm Enjolras was when they pressed together. He could duck his head to Enjolras’ shoulder to kiss it, run his hands up the smooth expanse of Enjolras’ back to feel the way his spine curved. Everything was intensified, and Grantaire couldn’t get enough, scars completely forgotten as he committed the sensation of their chests and stomachs pressing together to memory.

Enjolras bit down on his lip again, and Grantaire let out a breathy sound, fingers digging into Enjolras’ back in a plea for more that didn’t go unanswered. Enjolras dragged his fingernails down Grantaire’s spine, twisting them in the direction of the bed. Their robes were trailing on the floor, so they could only shuffle or risk tripping, each step pulling the material further down.

“Fucksake,” Grantaire muttered as he almost stumbled, and broke away to step out of his robes and yank his socks off at the same time. A thought struck him as Enjolras laughed and did the same. “Do you…” How to ask? Muggles broadcasted their preferences through clothing and behaviour, but Enjolras was an ambiguity.

“What?” Enjolras’ smile was dazzling, and he pushed his shorts off quickly, stepping back to sit on the bed. Grantaire had to take a second to close his mouth, not sure where to look now Enjolras was naked. “Grantaire, what?”

Fuck it. “Do you top or bottom?” Grantaire asked in a rush, not quite daring to take off his own underwear, though it wasn’t exactly hiding his erection.

Enjolras shrugged, leaning forward to catch his hand with a shameless grin. “Either. Both. I don’t mind.” He rested his hands on Grantaire’s waist, and Grantaire had to cover them with his own to push the underwear down and off, his throat very dry. “We can do what you like.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course.” Enjolras shifted back and pulled Grantaire with him until he was kneeling above Enjolras’ thighs. “What do you normally do?”

“I…” Grantaire jumped as Enjolras pulled him down to sit, their cocks suddenly together. “I top,” he whispered. “Usually.”

Enjolras’ grin chased away any lingering doubts, and Grantaire gave into temptation and leaned down to kiss him, moaning at the pressure it put on his cock, pressed between their stomachs. Enjolras was the one to break away this time, twisting away with a sigh of, “One moment,” to get up and grab his wand from where he’d dropped it on the floor.

Magic in bed. It made sense, but it would be a new experience. Grantaire sat up and as a result got a lap full of Enjolras when he got back on the bed, putting his wand down to wrap his arms around Grantaire instead. As a distraction, it more than sufficed.

If bare chests had been intense, it was nothing compared to this. Grantaire was usually good at keeping quiet in bed, but Enjolras’ gasps and groans were very encouraging, and Enjolras’ body was setting him on fire. He lavished attention on Enjolras’ collarbones and sternum for the way it made Enjolras hum, and almost choked when Enjolras slipped a hand between them and wrapped it around both of their cocks. “ _Fuck_ …”

“Good?” Enjolras checked, teasing.

Grantaire huffed and tugged a strand of his hair, pulling him down for another deep kiss. He could get drunk on kisses like this. Enjolras rocked against him, and Grantaire jerked when he swiped his fingers over the top, spreading precome over both of them. Enjolras’ thighs were tight either side of his, his free hand curled around the back of Grantaire’s neck, urging him on, his little gasps taking on a desperate edge.

Grantaire took a breath and moved, pushing up and moving Enjolras with hands on his waist, giving him plenty of time to change the direction he was taking this. But Enjolras only grabbed his wand before Grantaire guided him to lie down, long hair a mess against the pillows. “One second,” he breathed, twisting to spread his legs. Grantaire leaned back and tried not to gape when Enjolras pointed his wand at his ass and muttered something under his breath.

“What the –”

“ _Ah_.” Enjolras shivered, then gave Grantaire an amused look. “It’s faster this way.”

“What did you do?” Grantaire flushed at how startled he sounded.

“Prepared myself.” Enjolras grinned and propped himself up on an elbow, transferring his wand from his right hand to his left and pointing the tip at his right palm. Grantaire watched in stunned silence as what was unmistakeably lube came out of it. “How do Muggles do it?” Enjolras asked, ruining Grantaire’s ability to reply when he reached forward with his newly slicked hand and wrapped it around Grantaire’s cock.

Grantaire swallowed, managing to take two shaky breaths before leaning forward on one arm to get closer, one of Enjolras’ knees rubbing against his hip. “With their fingers,” he got out eventually, eyes closed. He could feel the heat coming off Enjolras’ body, but he didn’t dare press himself down against it in case Enjolras stopped touching him like this, his legs holding Grantaire close as his hand stroked and stroked.

“Doesn’t it hurt?” Enjolras murmured, and Grantaire sank down onto his elbows with a gasp as Enjolras canted his hips and positioned them so that Grantaire could thrust into him. He didn’t take his hand away though, and Grantaire pressed his face into Enjolras’ neck, shaking.

“Not…fuck, I don’t…Enjolras…”

“Later,” Enjolras agreed, and reached up to cup Grantaire’s jaw, turning his face for a kiss.

“The spell,” Grantaire choked, “your spell, is it…will it hurt you if I –?”

“No.” Enjolras stopped stroking him and just held his cock, the head pressed against his entrance. “You won’t hurt me, don’t worry. Come on,” he added in a whisper. “Please.”

Grantaire let out a shivery sound and shifted his weight onto one elbow so he could reach between them and wrap his hand around Enjolras’ cock. It made Enjolras whine, shifting impatiently when Grantaire kissed the corner of his mouth. “Lube for you first.”

Enjolras groaned and let go of Grantaire’s face to grab his wand again. “Your hand, quick.”

Grantaire didn’t look down to see it, but he felt the liquid pour into his palm. The moment Enjolras put his wand down, Grantaire started to push in. Enjolras was open and slick, just as he’d promised, and Grantaire felt him arch his back, felt Enjolras gasp against his cheek and then tighten his legs around Grantaire, pulling him in. “Like that,” he breathed, “Grantaire, come on…”

Grantaire had no words to give him in reply, so he touched him instead, starting to thrust as he wrapped his hand back around Enjolras’ cock and kissed him through the obscene sounds he made as Grantaire started to jerk him off.

The world shrank from apartment to bedroom to bed to just Enjolras, just the two of them as Grantaire moved above him, eyes closed because he couldn’t look, he couldn’t, if he looked he would fly apart, he already felt like he was shaking into pieces. Enjolras met every thrust, one foot planted on the mattress for leverage, the other somewhere in the air, his thigh right up against Grantaire’s hip, his mouth on Grantaire’s face, their foreheads pressed together. It was painfully intimate; that, more than the pleasure Enjolras was giving him, took Grantaire’s breath away.

“Like this,” Enjolras whispered, groaning when Grantaire tightened his grip on his cock. “ _Ahh_ …Aire, please –”

Grantaire was already losing his rhythm, losing his mind at how amazing Enjolras felt, how good it was to be held by him, in him. There was no way he was going to be able to make this last, not with Enjolras clenching around him and pulling him into a filthy kiss, the two of them panting into each other’s mouths as Grantaire thrust harder.

Enjolras’ arms were wrapped around him, one hand trembling against Grantaire’s cheek, so gentle it was making his throat tight. Would he ever have this again? That thought was too much, and he had to open his eyes in case it was true. He had to fix this into his memory forever if this was the last time he would feel this way.

Enjolras was beautiful, flushed from cheek to chest, his mouth wet from kisses. When Grantaire looked at him he moaned and shivered, his cock twitching in Grantaire’s hand, and Grantaire kissed the corner of his eye, unable to look away now he’d started, his arousal spiking until he couldn’t breathe, driving deep into Enjolras as he came. Enjolras threw his head back and rolled his hips, frantically chasing his own orgasm, and Grantaire sped up the motion of his hand, gazing down breathlessly as Enjolras finally tensed and came, the sound of his uneven breathing harsh and loud.

Beautiful, Grantaire wanted to say, but his throat was too tight to speak. As Enjolras relaxed, Grantaire kissed him instead, drinking up the quiet sounds of pleasure Enjolras made. When Enjolras pulled him down, he allowed himself to rest his weight on Enjolras’ chest and side, hiding his face against Enjolras’ neck as gentle fingers stroked through his hair.

They didn’t speak for a long time, long enough that when Grantaire finally drew away, they were both heavy-bodied and sleepy. “Stay,” Enjolras murmured when Grantaire got up. “Please? Just for now?”

Not forever. Grantaire wasn’t sure whether his heart hurt because he wanted Enjolras to ask for that, or because he knew he couldn’t give it either way. “I’ll be back in a second,” he whispered, pretending he didn’t see Enjolras’ smile as he turned away to go to the bathroom. When he came back the lamps had been extinguished. Enjolras had cleaned up the wet patch and was curled under the covers, waiting for him.

Grantaire had only slept in a bed with another man once, and he’d been too drunk to remember anything about it. So he was careful as he climbed in and lay on his side facing Enjolras, losing tension he hadn’t realised was there when Enjolras kissed him. “I’m glad you’re here,” Enjolras said softly.

Grantaire had to swallow twice before he could whisper a reply. “So am I.” It was worth it for Enjolras’ smile, visible in the darkness only as an impression. Grantaire wasn’t surprised when Enjolras rolled over, but he was when Enjolras shifted back to press against him. He’d known in an abstract sort of way that people did this after sleeping together, but he’d never actually done it himself.

Hopefully he wouldn’t fuck it up.

Had he been more awake, he probably would have freaked out about it more, but it was too difficult to worry too much when he felt so comfortable, and when Enjolras was right there, the line of his shoulders bared for Grantaire to kiss, the gap between them just wide enough that they wouldn’t overheat. The lump in his throat was gone, and he felt strangely light, a small smile lingering on his lips as he fell asleep.

 

“I want you to read something,” Enjolras said the next morning. Grantaire looked up from his breakfast and raised an eyebrow.

“Your book?”

“You can’t read all of it yet,” Enjolras smiled. “It’s nowhere near done. But I’ve got the first draft of the introduction. I thought you might want to check it.”

When had Grantaire begun to trust him so completely that he didn’t feel the need to check every word Enjolras had written? But Enjolras wanted him to check, so Grantaire nodded. “Alright.”

Enjolras hadn’t kissed him since last night, but there was something in the way they were moving around each other now, some lack of hesitation between them that kept taking Grantaire by surprise. It wasn’t like his awareness of Enjolras before, when he’d been wary, some part of him categorising Enjolras as a potential threat. Now every time he glanced Enjolras’ way, something pleasant fizzed inside him. It was even worse (or better) if he caught Enjolras looking back at him.

When they’d finished eating, Grantaire followed Enjolras to his desk, and sat when Enjolras nodded. The surface was absolutely covered in parchment, and Enjolras shuffled a few pieces aside, sorting some into rough piles before shaking one piece free from the rest and setting it in front of Grantaire.

“Your writing’s much better when you’re not going quick, isn’t it?” Grantaire murmured, touching the edge of the parchment, amused by how neat the writing was.

“I use shorthand when I’m interviewing. I’ll explain later,” he added, smiling at Grantaire’s questioning look.

Grantaire looked back down at the parchment, acutely aware of Enjolras watching him. There was nothing for it but to read.

At the top of the parchment was a short list that Grantaire realised was a draft of the contents page. 

-          What is Lycanthropy? Myth vs. Fact

-          The practical realities

-          - Keeping yourself/others safe at the full moon

-          - Schooling

-          - Employment

-          - Relationships (familial, friendly, romantic)

-          - Physical struggles and pain

-          - Having to keep the secret and stay hidden

-          The official stance

-          - History's view of werewolves

-          - Breakdown of laws regarding werewolves

-          - Authorised prejudices

-          Bounty hunters

-          Conclusion

And below that, Enjolras had written an introduction. Short sentences and bold statements, the calm fury rippling on the parchment, inviting the reader to share his outrage, putting them all on a higher moral ground to condemn those who discriminated against werewolves.

_We have been lied to. We have been told that werewolves are inherently immoral, irreparably corrupt, that whoever they might have been before being bitten is lost, their personality and character erased by an animal brain. Nothing could be further from the truth._

Grantaire’s chest seemed to be full of more air than usual, his heart beating like a drum. If he’d been captivated by Enjolras’ last book, he was bewitched by this. How could anyone read this and not doubt their own prejudices at least a little?

“What do you think?” Enjolras asked quietly. When Grantaire looked up, he was biting his lip.

“It’s amazing.” It was a relief to say it and see Enjolras’ face light up.

“I hoped you’d like it.”

“It’s perfect, Enjolras.”

“There’s still a lot I have to do, but I’ve collected all the raw material now, I think. I need to talk to Combeferre and Courfeyrac about the Ministry – I can’t think clearly about it without getting angry. It could…things might go badly,” he said, his smile fading as he fixed Grantaire with a sober look. “I know you probably want to leave, but I’m not going to lie to you and say that’s what I want.”

Grantaire leaned back, frowning in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Enjolras licked his lips, weighing his words before speaking. “I’ve come to…care for you, a great deal. I don’t think of you as a source for my book, and I haven’t done for some time now. I understand if last night wasn’t…if you don’t want any more than that, but if you do, I want you to know that I’d like to try.”

Grantaire was sure in a distant sort of way that he’d stopped breathing. His chest wasn’t moving – neither was any other part of him. He was frozen, uncomprehending, lips parted in surprise.

“You don’t have to decide anything right now,” Enjolras added quickly, a definite pink tinge rising in his cheeks. “We should go to La Cour and get you a wand, and there’s someone I’d like you to meet, if you’re amenable.”

“Meet?” Grantaire found his words, sucking in a sharp breath.

Enjolras nodded, relaxing. “Another werewolf, another of my sources. He’s been almost as helpful as you when it comes to providing material for the book.”

Grantaire pretended he wasn’t pleased that this other werewolf was only  _almost_  as helpful. “Will it be safe?” he asked.

“Yes. I’d planned to meet him today anyway, and if we get you a wand first you’ll be able to defend yourself if you feel you need to.”

Strange to think that just a few short months ago, Grantaire would have refused outright, judging it far too risky. Now, however, he nodded. “Alright.” Enjolras’ smile was a reward in itself, and Grantaire couldn’t help smiling back, standing up. “Are we going now?”

“If you wish it.”

Grantaire nodded, and Enjolras smiled, going to get ready. He had to magically modify a pair of his boots to stretch and fit Grantaire, since he had no shoes of his own, and once Enjolras had tied his hair back and tucked his wand in his pocket, they left the apartment.

It was harder than Grantaire had expected. His instinct when afraid was to either run or hide, and Enjolras’ apartment was the safest hiding place he’d ever had, and certainly the most comfortable. Leaving it felt dangerous, like he was stepping out onto a cliff edge. He concentrated on Enjolras, staying close behind him as they went downstairs. Outside of the apartment, he felt his lack of wand like the loss of a limb. If they were attacked, he would be worse than useless.

“We’ll go straight to La Cour to get you a wand,” Enjolras murmured as they went down to the fire in the foyer. “I have money enough for that without going to Gringotts first.”

“Thank you.”

The journey to the wandmaker’s was nerve-wracking. Grantaire clenched his fists in the pockets of his borrowed robe (the most boring he could find in Enjolras’ wardrobe) and tried not to look around too much in case it drew attention. He was just a normal wizard, coming shopping with a…friend? What was Enjolras to him now?

A question to be considered later. Getting a wand took precedence over everything else. 

Lachance Wands was on the main square of La Cour, close to the three public fireplaces people used to get to and from La Cour by Floo. The inside was light and airy, with many mirrors set into the walls. The foyer protruded from the main building, its glass roof so clean it sparkled. Behind the counter, the shop looked almost like a library, with two levels of shelves stretching out of sight around the corners.

“One moment!” a woman called from somewhere in the upper level.

Grantaire glanced behind them at the window display. Musichetta worked in a Lachance workshop, but he’d never thought to ask whether she ever worked in the shop itself. The woman hadn’t sounded like her, but he couldn’t be sure. Heels on wooden floorboards made him look up as a thankfully unfamiliar witch in short-sleeved robes came to the balcony and hurried down the stairs.

“Good morning,” she smiled once she was behind the counter, ink-black hair braided neatly back from her face to show off large green eyes. “Which one of you needs a wand?”

Enjolras looked his way, and Grantaire stepped forward, oddly nervous. “Me.”

“Very good. Show me your hands, please.”

Grantaire glanced at Enjolras, and seeing no indication that this wasn’t usual practice, lifted his hands up to his shoulders.

“Like this, monsieur.” She held her hands out, palms up. When he copied her, she leaned forward over the counter and grabbed his hands. He had to force himself not to flinch away from her, letting her pull him forward and inspect his hands. She tapped his left palm. “This is your wand hand?”

“Yes.”

“Mm-hm.” She let go of his right hand and concentrated on his left, turning it over and spreading his fingers, pressing down on the ball of his thumb and tracing the lines on his palm.

“Do you need to do this?” he asked, uncomfortable.

“You’ve never bought a wand before?” she looked up at him, a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth.

“No.”

“Well, yes, this is necessary. How else will I know what sort of wands to give you to try?”

“I…” Grantaire looked at Enjolras, bewildered. He’d never considered this aspect of getting a custom wand before – all Musichetta had talked about was their creation.

The witch laughed and let go of his hand. “Pine, perhaps, but we’ll see. Wait here, monsieur.” She turned on her heel and disappeared into the rows of shelves behind the counter, the clack of her heels the only indication of where she was.

“Did you come here to get your wand?” Grantaire whispered, edging closer to Enjolras.

He nodded. “When I was eleven. Children shouldn’t have wands before they’re old enough to use them, my mother always said, even though I begged to have one for every birthday.” He smiled. “She was right though. Wands can be too dangerous – Joly told me about a little girl who was brought into the hospital once who’d almost burned her eye out when she got hold of her mother’s wand.”

“Do they make you try a lot of wands?”

“It depends. I found mine – or it found me, as Chetta would say – quite quickly. I can’t have tried more than five.”

“How do you know which one’s for you?”

Enjolras shrugged. “You can just tell. Mine just fit right in my hand. It felt like it had been made for me.”

Grantaire chewed his lip, hoping he wouldn’t have to try many. He didn’t like standing in front of the window display like this, so exposed to anyone walking past on the street outside.

The witch returned, floating a pile of ten long boxes in front of her with her wand, which stacked themselves neatly on the counter when they reached it. “Now,” she said, with obvious relish. “Let’s see what we can find.” She took a box from the top and opened it up, handing Grantaire the wand inside.

It was dark in colour, quite long and thin, and Grantaire somehow wasn’t surprised when he took it and felt nothing. The witch took it back immediately and boxed it up again with practiced swiftness, moving onto the next.

Six more wands followed, each as unresponsive as the last, until the seventh. When the witch placed it in his hand, Grantaire felt something inside him settle, his fingers flexing around the handle. “A match?” she guessed, pleased. “Try a little spell.”

“Lumos?” Enjolras supplied when Grantaire’s mind went predictably blank.

He shot Enjolras a grateful look and shifted his grip on the wand. “Lumos.” The tip lit up, brighter by far than anything he’d managed to produce with his last wand, and he grinned despite himself.

“Excellent!” the witch beamed. “Thirteen and a half inches, willow and phoenix feather, nice and flexible. Would you like me to box it up again, or will you take it as it is?”

“As it is, thanks.” Grantaire flicked it and extinguished the light non-verbally, laughing when it worked on the first try.

“That will be nine galleons then, monsieur.”

“I’ll pay. I broke his old one,” Enjolras lied, smiling at the witch as he got his money bag out. Meanwhile, Grantaire tried to catch his breath, frozen by the realisation that the wand he was holding cost _nine galleons_.

“Is that expensive?” he asked as soon as they left the shop, his voice a little higher than normal. “For wands, I mean?”

“No, I think the prices tend to range from seven to fifteen galleons.”

“Fifteen!”

Enjolras shrugged, as if the cost was inconsequential. Perhaps to him it was. “It’s an investment. You can’t do much without one, after all. And they are difficult to make – you’re paying for the craftsmanship. You must have heard Chetta’s stories about badly made wands.”

“Well yes, but still. _Fifteen_ galleons!”

“Yours was only nine,” Enjolras said, amused.

“ _Only?_ ” Grantaire shook his head, fingering the new wand in his pocket. “That’s almost two interviews.”

“Twenty-one galleons left,” Enjolras reminded him. “Do you want to come to Gringotts with me?”

Grantaire hesitated, torn between his desire to see inside the legendary vaults, and his strong aversion to anything that so much as hinted at having trap potential. “I’ll wait outside,” he decided. “If that’s alright.”

“Of course. My vault’s close to the surface, so I shouldn’t be long.”

There wasn’t anywhere to sit outside, so Grantaire put his back against a wall and stayed there. He kept his hand on his wand and his eyes open, watching for anything that so much as hinted at danger. There was little to watch – Monday morning was hardly a busy time for somewhere like La Cour. Those who were out were mainly older witches and wizards, and the occasional middle-aged one obviously shopping for a family.

There was a clock shop on the other side of the square, and Grantaire kept glancing back at the huge clock over the shop front, tracking the progress of the minute hand as time ground by, each minute seeming longer than the last. With nothing else to distract him, Enjolras’ declaration from earlier kept sneaking into Grantaire’s mind.

Enjolras cared for him. Enjolras hadn’t thought of him as a source for some time. Enjolras wanted him to stay.

It had been too much to take in at the time, but now it was all Grantaire could think about. He didn’t doubt that Enjolras meant it, but that only meant that Grantaire had done something, said something maybe during their interviews, to mislead him into thinking this was a good idea. What could he have possibly done that was making Enjolras want to keep him around?

It couldn’t just be for sex. Even with his bite mark, Enjolras could use magic to disguise it and get anyone he liked. Although, if Grantaire stayed, it would be convenient for him. But Grantaire was under no illusions that he was anything special between the sheets – Enjolras had seemed last night to know exactly what he was doing, he was probably more experienced, could certainly find bedmates less likely to bring danger to his door.

There was nothing about him worth the risk. Grantaire rubbed his thumb against the handle of his new wand and tried not to frown or fidget. What was Enjolras thinking? Why would  _anyone_  want to keep Grantaire around? He couldn’t contribute anything of worth to a life like Enjolras’. Did Enjolras think he owed him something? Was this some sort of apology, because he thought it was somehow his fault Grantaire had been caught by the Thénardier sisters?

That had to be it. It was a relief to figure it out, and Grantaire let out a breath, slumping against the wall. Enjolras was being overprotective, that was all. He just needed to make it clear that he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. To a degree, at least. But Enjolras wouldn’t have been able to do anything if the Thénardiers had turned up to take him the way they’d taken Grantaire. Anyone would be doomed in that situation.

Grantaire remembered how appalled Enjolras had been at his acceptance of an early death. Enjolras was obviously taking responsibility in some way, trying to prevent the inevitable. It was…sweet, that was all. Naïve. Misdirected. Grantaire pushed down the warmth in his chest and swallowed. Even if Enjolras hadn’t been misled, it would be too dangerous to stay. Two werewolves living in the open in the middle of the capital? They wouldn’t last a month, especially not if the Patron-Minette was on their trail.

The smart thing to do would be to leave.

The thought sank into him like cold water. He had a wand; he could get by without money. The smart, decent thing would be to leave and not come back. Cut off all contact and run, maybe try to catch Patron-Minette’s attention on the way out to lead them away from Enjolras.

That last idea made him grip his wand handle so tight his hand shook, but it was bearable. He would risk it, if it meant they would turn their eyes away from Enjolras. Let them think he was just a reporter, a normal wizard. The thought of Enjolras being caught, caged, tortured – it was enough to make his breath stop, his heart clench.

He didn’t need the money. He didn’t need Enjolras. His apartment was gone, he had no life here, no real friends. He should go. He should leave, now.

He didn’t move.

This was insane. Worse – it was selfish, stupid. He had to go. 

Still, Grantaire remained leaning against the wall, his eyes on the clock across the square. Enjolras had been in Gringotts for almost half an hour, he would be out soon, and then Grantaire would have lost his chance to slip away without a fuss. He  _had_  to leave.

“Aire!”

Too late. Relief and regret made a painful cocktail inside him as he straightened, eyes on Enjolras as he approached. Enjolras was smiling, his robes swirling around his ankles as he walked. “Are you ready?” he asked as soon as he was close.

“Ready?” Grantaire repeated blankly.

“To see the other source of mine I want you to meet.”

“Oh.” He’d completely forgotten, but he nodded. “Of course. Lead on.”

“We meet in the Rossi Gardens – have you ever been there?” As he walked, Enjolras pulled his hand out of his pocket and handed ten galleons to Grantaire as casually as if he was giving him sweets. Grantaire struggled not to let the gold spill all over the ground as he took it and dropped it into his pocket, the weight even greater than he had expected.

“The…no, never. Er…what are they?”

“Oh!” Enjolras gave him a dazzling smile and another handful of gold. Grantaire counted the galleons as he dropped them into his pocket. Eleven in total – Enjolras’ debt was paid. “Mireille Rossi was a famous herbologist in the eighteenth century. When she died, her family turned her home and her gardens into a public park. The medicinal sections used to be used by almost every magical hospital in France.”

“Why did they stop?” He was carrying so much gold, Grantaire could hardly believe he was finding the presence of mind to ask questions.

“Supply couldn’t keep up with demand, and they planted their own gardens. The Rossi Gardens are still lovely though. I’m glad to be the one taking you somewhere beautiful for once.” He gave Grantaire a crooked smile.

They headed back to the fireplaces, and Enjolras produced a little travel bag of Floo powder for Grantaire to take a pinch of before he took a pinch himself and stepped into the fire. “Rossi Gardens,” he stated, and vanished from sight in a blaze of green.

Grantaire followed, stepping out of a fireplace inside what must have been Mireille Rossi’s house. An elderly wizard in purple robes was sitting at a desk nearby, and he nodded as Grantaire brushed ash from his robes. “One sickle for a ticket,” the wizard bleated.

To be able to hand over a galleon of his own and get a handful of change back along with his little ticket was such a small thing. Enjolras did exactly the same just a second later, and neither he nor the wizard in purple robes batted an eye at the transaction, but Grantaire couldn’t let go of his ticket, even in his pocket. He rubbed his thumb over the smooth, thick paper, feeling the raised lines of the ink stamped onto it, and fought not to grin.

The purple-robed wizard thought he was completely normal. Just a wizard visiting a park. No one notable. No one dangerous.

Enjolras led the way out of the house and onto the stone steps outside. The gardens lay before them, in a style like nothing Grantaire had ever seen. There was nothing taller than maybe four feet, and the beds were in a pattern Grantaire had to stare at for a few seconds before he understood. “It’s in spirals?”

“Spirals, circles, and curved lines. It’s classic wizarding style, pioneered by the French,” Enjolras said proudly. “It’s meant to imitate the movement of the heavens. Some gardens adhere to it very strictly, but Rossi was a little more abstract. She cared more about practicality and ease of maintenance than mirroring the stars.”

“Why’s it all so short?”

“To show off the shape of the beds. Come on, he’ll be this way.” Enjolras walked down the steps towards the garden, and Grantaire followed. The paths were gravelled with black and white stones – stars in the sky, Grantaire supposed, following the cosmos theme. Each bed had stakes with little plaques attached near the edges, telling the reader which plants were there, and how they fit into the theme of the garden. Grantaire wished they didn’t have to meet Enjolras’ source so he could look around a bit, but Enjolras wasn’t slowing down enough for him to catch more than the names of a few plants on the plaques they passed.

Some of the paths were wide enough to have black polished benches on them, and Grantaire avoided the eyes of the few other witches and wizards who had chosen to visit the Gardens today. None of them were werewolves, and Enjolras didn’t slow down until he stopped so abruptly that Grantaire almost walked into him.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” he told Grantaire. “My source waits in the same place every time. I’ll give him the choice of whether he wants to meet you or not, and I’ll come back here and tell you. I won’t be more than a minute.”

“Alright,” Grantaire said, when it became clear that Enjolras was waiting for him to say something. “I’ll wait.”

“Thank you.” Enjolras sounded almost relieved, but before Grantaire could look at him closer, he was gone, hurrying away down the path and taking a turn around a tall bush with dense leaves. Grantaire watched the progress of his blonde head until it stopped, not far away, but not close enough for Grantaire to hear what he was saying. His mouth was definitely moving though, so there had to be a bench there, or else his source was a very short wizard.

Or a child.

Grantaire’s body went cold, but before he could examine that reaction in detail, Enjolras was looking over at him and smiling, nodding his head. It seemed to take a lot of energy for Grantaire to lift his feet and start walking, praying silently that Enjolras’ source wasn’t a child, not a kid, not someone like Grantaire had been when he’d been bitten.

When he turned the corner and saw who the occupant of the bench was, his heart thudded painfully, relief and shock crashing through him at the same time. The man on the bench was far from a child. He was unmistakably a werewolf, but at the same time Grantaire wanted to doubt his own eyes. This wizard was far too old to be a werewolf. His hair and neatly trimmed beard were bright white, the wrinkles on his face and hands visible even from here.

He only stopped staring when Enjolras touched his elbow, drawing his attention like a magnet. “His name is Monsieur LeBlanc,” Enjolras said quietly. “His daughter is Euphrasie.”

“His…” Grantaire looked back to the wizard, and only then looked past him to the woman sitting at his side. She saw him staring and gave him a little wave, a lovely smile on her face. “He has a daughter?” Grantaire hardly recognised his own voice, he sounded so choked. Enjolras squeezed his elbow.

“He does. He’s willing to talk to you, if you want to talk to him. I just wanted to show you that not every werewolf is doomed to die young.”

Grantaire balled his hands into fists in his pockets, digging his nails into his palms and swallowing determinedly. He was not going to cry, not in front of Enjolras, certainly not just at the  _sight_  of a werewolf with white hair. “Are you going to stay?” he managed to ask, still in that horrible choked voice.

“Of course, if you want me to.”

Grantaire nodded, a little desperate. He needed something familiar to hold onto if he was going to do this. He took a deep breath and swallowed one last time before pulling his hands out of his pockets and going forward. Only then did the old werewolf look at him, and when he did, Grantaire faltered for half a second, Enjolras’ fingers on his arm keeping him from stopping completely. The wizard and his daughter were sat at the end of the bench, and Grantaire had to force himself to sit rather than kneel or bow, and even then he had to keep a foot of space between them.

This werewolf was  _strong_ , however old he looked. Grantaire could barely meet his eyes, panic thrumming through his veins. Forget wands – if this man so much as pushed him, Grantaire would collapse like a house of cards, he was sure of it.

“Monsieur,” the wizard said, and the frightening pressure eased a little. Grantaire shook his head to try and ease it a bit more and took the hand the wizard offered. His grip was as solid as Grantaire had expected – there was definitely strength under the surface that wasn’t being used. “My name is Monsieur LeBlanc.”

“Aire.” Grantaire hesitated, then added, buoyed by Enjolras behind him, “Grantaire. Just Grantaire.”

“Grantaire.” The daughter leaned around her father and smiled, almost laughing. “Is that a pun?”

Grantaire smiled back, unable to stop it. “Yeah, sort of.”

“My name is Euphrasie. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Grantaire nodded, and cleared his throat before he looked back at her father. He wanted to say something polite, maybe something interesting, but all he blurted out was, “How old are you?”

Monsieur LeBlanc smiled, apparently not at all perturbed by Grantaire’s rudeness. “I’ll be seventy-one this December.”

“You’re seventy?” Grantaire gaped, his throat tight.

“I am.”

“How…”

“Caution, money, and luck.” LeBlanc smiled again. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-eight.” His voice came out faint. This man was over  _twice_  his age. It was like meeting a living miracle. “ _How?_ ” he asked again, unable to move past the question.

“I’ll leave Enjolras to fill you in on the details of my life, as I’ve told it to him,” LeBlanc said, giving Enjolras a small nod. “But if it’s my current situation you wish to know, I will tell you that I live in a small house with my daughter and a Muggle housekeeper, and we live off my savings.”

“But…” Grantaire took a deep breath, trying to get a hold on the threads of his belief. “The full moon, what do you do?”

“I lock myself securely in the cellar.”

“What about…” Grantaire trailed off, looking at Euphrasie.

“I can take care of myself,” she said, with enough serene confidence that Grantaire was almost inclined to believe her. LeBlanc’s expression was grave, however.

“I do not deny the risks,” he said in a low voice. “But I believe the benefits outweigh them. I also believe that I deserve, as a free wizard, the right to live in peace with my daughter. To condemn another for something he cannot help is poor conduct indeed.”

Enjolras must have loved interviewing this guy. Grantaire glanced between LeBlanc and Euphrasie again, and asked hesitantly, “How did you – I mean, is…”

“Euphrasie is not my daughter by blood,” LeBlanc said, apparently guessing at Grantaire’s question. The strange disappointment that rose with that statement vanished when he went on – “But her mother was a werewolf of my acquaintance. Enjolras can tell you more. I have no wish to go over the matter more than I must.”

Grantaire nodded hastily. “I didn’t mean to pry, I’m sorry.”

“It’s quite alright. It’s hardly prying, when soon it’s going to be public information.” Again, LeBlanc inclined his head in Enjolras’ direction. “Is there anything else you would like to know?” he asked Grantaire. In anyone else’s mouth, even Enjolras’, those words might have made Grantaire shake his head and back away, but LeBlanc sounded so kind, and his white hair and old-fashioned robes reminded Grantaire suddenly, powerfully, of his grandfather.

He pushed the painful swell of emotion down and took a breath to keep it there. “How do you stay in one place?” he asked, digging his fingernails into his legs so he wouldn’t twist his fingers together. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Caution is key,” LeBlanc said. “And as I mentioned, we do not want for money, and that goes a long way. If were not so fortunate, it would be much harder. I live under a false name, and through a piece of luck, I was able to use another’s identity to send Euphrasie to school.”

“To Beauxbatons?” LeBlanc nodded, and Grantaire didn’t look at Euphrasie, afraid his jealousy might show if he did. “Can I ask…” At another nod, he went on. “How old were you? When you were bitten?”

“I was twenty-six.” After a second, LeBlanc added, “And yourself?”

“Ten.”

“Ah.” Grantaire saw it coming, but it was still a shock when LeBlanc took one of his hands in both of his and squeezed gently, Grantaire’s chest seizing at the contact. “I’m sorry,” he said, the resemblance to Grantaire’s grandfather even more pronounced. “I would never wish this condition on anyone, but especially not on a child. I hope your future will be easier than your past.”

“You don’t know my past,” Grantaire whispered, frozen in place. LeBlanc squeezed his hand again.

“To have been bitten at ten, I don’t need to know anything about you to know that you’ve had a difficult life.” He let go, and Grantaire could breathe again. “Was there anything else you wanted to ask?”

Grantaire had to look down, failing to stop himself twining his fingers together now he wasn’t digging them into his thighs. “Does it get any easier?” he asked finally, looking up.

To his surprise, LeBlanc didn’t deny it outright, but considered the question. “It depends on your situation,” he decided. “It was hardest when I was alone. Once I was with Euphrasie, and I had another person to care for and turn my attention to, the transformations became…secondary. An inconvenience. The practicalities are always the same, of course – the pain never abates, and the moon always comes – but when I am content with the life I have built beyond my condition, it ceases to be torture. My life has not revolved around the moon for a long time now, and I’m a better man for it.”

Grantaire had to swallow again, holding his composure together through sheer stubbornness. “Thank you,” he croaked, and LeBlanc smiled, understanding perfectly. He rose to his feet and looked over Grantaire’s shoulder at Enjolras.

“I will review the pages you’ve given me and return them by owl.”

“I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done.” Enjolras was on his feet as well, and so was Euphrasie, but Grantaire couldn’t look at any of them. He was barely keeping it together as it was – if he saw LeBlanc give one more gesture of kindness, it would probably break him. He certainly felt liable to shatter at the slightest touch.

LeBlanc and his daughter left, gravel crunching under their feet as they walked away, and Enjolras sat down next to him on the bench again. “Are you alright?”

Grantaire nodded, leaning forward to cover his face with his hands, elbows heavy on his knees. After a moment, something touched his shoulder. When he didn’t move, the pressure grew as Enjolras rested his hand there properly, a grounding weight. They sat like that for almost a minute, Grantaire breathing slowly and getting himself back under control. Still, he had to mutter, “ _Seventy_ ,” as he sat up, Enjolras’ hand falling from his shoulder.

“It can happen,” Enjolras said quietly. “I wanted to show you it can happen.”

Grantaire let out a bark of laughter. “You definitely did that.” He looked down at his hands, imagining them wrinkled like LeBlanc’s, his hair grey or white. He’d never even bothered picturing it before; it had seemed like such an impossible dream. Past the age of twenty-two, he’d felt like he was living on borrowed time anyway, just waiting for the inevitable. But here was Monsieur LeBlanc, turning seventy-one this year with a house and a daughter and a  _life_. A secretive and cautious one, yes, but still a life. “Thank you,” he said, not looking up.

“You’re welcome.” Enjolras shifted, subtle enough that his side pressing against Grantaire’s might have been accidental. Grantaire rubbed a hand over his face to hide his smile, moving his leg so his knee was touching Enjolras’ as well.

“Can we stay here for a bit?” he asked. He could tell it wasn’t lost on Enjolras that he’d said  _we_.

“As long as you want,” Enjolras smiled. “The tickets last all day.”

Grantaire nodded, scrubbed his hand across his eyes once more, and stood up. “Where’s the best place to start in this garden? Is there a best place?”

“These gardens were originally planted for practical use, not for viewing, so there’s no order you should do it in.”

“I’ll start here then.” Grantaire didn’t look at Enjolras as he turned to read the nearest plaque, barely taking in a word. Whether he looked or not, he could still see Enjolras in his peripheral vision, stepping forward to stand at his side, their hands close enough to touch.

Wiggenbush, according to the plaque, was ruled by Mercury, and was native to more northern climes. Related to the Wiggentree, it was commonly used in healing potions.

“Have you heard of Leticia Somnolens?” Enjolras asked. “The hag from the story of the sleeping princess?” Grantaire nodded, and Enjolras went on. “You use Wiggentree bark in the potion the wizard in that story used to wake the princess up.”

“They teach you that at Beauxbatons?” The backs of their hands brushed; Grantaire held his breath.

“They taught the potion at Beauxbatons.” Their hands were definitely pressed together now, Enjolras’ knuckles warm against his. “I can’t remember where I heard about the connection to the sleeping princess story. Probably from Combeferre.” Their fingers extended, slotting between each other for a second before Enjolras twisted his hand and held Grantaire’s properly. “He loves trivial knowledge like that,” Enjolras said, as if nothing had happened. “The sort of thing no one else cares about.”

Grantaire flexed his fingers, his heart catching at how it felt. Some part of him thought it was ridiculous – he’d had sex with Enjolras last night, for goodness sakes, holding hands shouldn’t be such a big deal. “You obviously care,” he said, trying to sound casual. “Enough to remember it, anyway.”

Enjolras smiled at him, his grip on Grantaire’s hand tightening a fraction. “I try to remember as much about what my friends like as I can.”

“You must get good presents.”

“I try to.”

They spent what must have been close to two hours in the Rossi Gardens, walking between the curving beds of flowers and plants. Some of them were set back from the path to stop them attacking the walkers, and some looked more alien than anything Grantaire had seen before. A lot of them were beginning to flower now spring was here, and Grantaire liked those the best, and felt no embarrassment telling Enjolras so.

“Stay with me,” Enjolras said as they finally made for the house again. Grantaire looked at him, surprised.

“What do you –”

“In my flat,” Enjolras clarified, meeting his eyes. “Or in the city, or at least somewhere where I can see you. Don’t leave.”

Grantaire couldn’t think clearly with Enjolras looking at him like that. He frowned down at his shoes on the black and white gravel – Enjolras’ shoes, really. To go with Enjolras’ robes. He couldn’t live off Enjolras like this, not if he wanted to have any sense of pride. And there were other problems too.

“What about Patron-Minette?” he asked the gravel quietly. “Montparnasse knows what I look like, and if he sees me again, he won’t hold back for the Thénardier sisters’ sake.”

“If the Patron-Minette wasn’t an issue, would you stay?”

Grantaire ran his teeth over his lower lip, frowning. Enjolras just waited, patient and calm, his hand still holding Grantaire’s. It was that, more than anything else, that made Grantaire murmur, “Yes.” He swallowed and looked up, adding quickly, “Not at your flat though. I want, I  _would_  want my own place.”

Enjolras squeezed his hand, his smile a beautiful, delicate thing. “I understand.”

“But Patron-Minette  _is_  an issue,” Grantaire reminded him, his heart twisting.

“Then I’ll make them not be.” Enjolras squeezed his hand again. “Éponine and Azelma gave me a lot of things I can use – I’ll talk to the others, and we’ll figure something out. I want you to feel safe. You don’t deserve to live on the run – everyone should have a home, or at least the option of one.”

Grantaire wanted to believe him more than anything, but reality couldn’t just be ignored. “You’re a reporter,” he said, “not an auror. How are you going to just make Patron-Minette stop?”

“For now, I don’t need to make them stop. All I need is to get them out of the city, which is a far more achievable goal. They will be stopped, I’ll make sure of it, but you’re right – that’s not something I can do on my own. And in any case, my priority is you, not them.” Enjolras moved to stand in front of him, and when Grantaire didn’t pull away or object, Enjolras lifted his free hand to brush his hair back from his face. It was broad daylight in a public place – Grantaire could hear people nearby, though he couldn’t see them – and every instinct told him to pull away in case someone saw. He ignored them.

Enjolras’ fingertips brushed his jaw, skidding over the skin to curl against his neck. He was leaning in, and Grantaire refused to move away, closed his eyes and let Enjolras kiss him softly enough to hurt. It was soft and brief and kind, and Grantaire couldn’t believe his whole body was tingling just from a kiss.

“Come home with me,” Enjolras whispered, close enough that Grantaire could feel the exhalation of the words against his lips. He’d had arguments, he knew. He’d resolved to leave; Enjolras’ desire to protect him wasn’t a good enough reason to endanger him. There wasn’t  _any_  good reason for that.

But still, he couldn’t help asking for one, whispering, “Why?”

Enjolras’ answer came in two parts. First, another kiss, as gentle and devastating as the first. Second, quiet words only Grantaire would hear. “Because I’m half in love with you,” he said. “And I want to fall the rest of the way very badly indeed.”

He should have left when he had the chance. Outside Gringotts, he should have slipped away and sent Enjolras a note to apologise once he was out of the city. But he hadn’t, and now Grantaire found himself whispering, “Alright,” and letting Enjolras’ smile fill him up, letting Enjolras lead him back inside to the fireplace, back to his apartment.

 _In love_. Grantaire couldn’t stop thinking it, those two words repeating themselves in his mind as he followed Enjolras.  _In love_. Enjolras wanted to fall in love with him, was apparently half in love with him already. In love with  _him_.

Yet another impossible thing he’d never bothered to so much as entertain, the notion so absurd he only ever acknowledged it to laugh at it. A sneer or a scoff once a year or so – who would fall in love with him? Who would have the chance? Things like love and friendship required repeated exposure, and Grantaire usually moved on from a place without even talking to more than a few people, always the briefest exchanges possible. The Corinthe had changed that, and from the Corinthe had come Enjolras.

Enjolras, who was half in love with him.

Grantaire took his hand as soon as he stepped into the foyer of Enjolras’ building, holding fast as they went upstairs and waiting until Enjolras closed the door before leaning in. A second’s pause to check that Enjolras was willing, and then Grantaire was kissing him, soft and tentative. It was Enjolras who had to pull him closer, fitting him against the front of his body and holding him there.

“So hesitant?” Enjolras teased, pulling back a little and smiling. “You didn’t hesitate yesterday.”

“I didn’t…I thought yesterday would be everything,” Grantaire said, finding he couldn’t be less than honest with Enjolras’ arms around him like this. “I didn’t think you’d want more than a night.”

“I want so much more than one night.” Enjolras kissed him deeply, and for a moment Grantaire thought last night would be repeated, but then Enjolras stopped kissing his mouth and kissed his cheek instead, and then his neck, his shoulder. And stayed there, his head ducked against the side of Grantaire’s as though he wanted to be nowhere else.

It was so warm. If it hadn’t been, perhaps it would have taken Grantaire longer to relax into it, to lean his head on Enjolras’ shoulder in an imitation of what Enjolras was doing. But it was warm, and Enjolras’ arms were around him. He hummed when Grantaire wrapped his arms around his waist in return, and they stood there like that in silence, just holding each other in front of the door in Enjolras’ living room.

 

Patron-Minette operated out of a Muggle house at the northern edge of Paris. Enjolras had told him repeatedly that there was no need for him to come, but Grantaire refused to stay behind. Bahorel, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Jehan were with them, wands in hand, and Joly was waiting a few streets back, ready to either provide backup or run for help. Grantaire knew they had to have guessed by now that he was a werewolf like Enjolras, but none of them had mentioned it, and he wasn’t going to bring it up either.

The buildings in this part of Paris were in poor condition, broken paint exposing brick and stone, gates askew, windows smashed. They’d come at night, the better to avoid Muggle interference, and against Enjolras’ wishes, Grantaire was leading them. None of the others knew any spells suited to breaking and entering, and once Grantaire had found out that Babet was apparently somewhere in Belgium, his courage had rallied.

Patron-Minette supposedly occupied the house at the end of this road, and Grantaire walked around the entire block before approaching the house behind it, muttering the counter-spell for the Intruder Charm under his breath as he went.  _Alohamora_  took care of the locked gate, and he walked into the garden and slid his wand out of his pocket as Enjolras and the others followed him. Patron-Minette’s house wasn’t directly opposite this one, it seemed. Only a sliver of its back wall was visible in the gap between another house that lay behind it, and the building to its left, above the fence that separated this garden from it. But that sliver did show a window.

Grantaire walked up to the fence, pointing his wand at it as he did and whispering, “Detego incantatum.” Nothing happened, so Grantaire stuck his wand between his teeth and grabbed the top of the fence with both hands, pulling himself up and locking one elbow to keep himself there. With his other hand he took his wand and pointed it at the back of the house. “Detego incantatum.”

This time, the back door and every windowsill shimmered briefly red. Grantaire didn’t look behind him as he put his wand back in his mouth and lifted himself up and over the fence as quietly as he could, dropping down onto the other side. He didn’t need to look behind him to see if the others were following – he could hear each of them as they hauled themselves over the fence. Trying not to pay attention (so much noise, what if the Muggles heard, what if the Patron-Minette were in there, what if they were readying themselves for an ambush), he went to the door and started muttering spells under his breath.

Gros had taught him how to do this, drilled it into him over and over. Grantaire could have done this in his sleep, step by step, spell by spell. Most people didn’t bother to put more than one spell on their doors and windows, and usually that spell was a basic Intruder or Caterwauling Charm. Both spells were easy to dismantle, and when Grantaire murmured, “Detego incantatum,” again after whispering the counter-spells for both, no red glow appeared.

He silenced the door before unlocking it and opening it. It opened into a kitchen that, even in the extremely dim light, was obviously filthy. No further spells revealed themselves at Grantaire’s whispered check, so he stepped in very carefully, avoiding a puddle by the sink as he passed it on his way to the door.

The room beyond was large, a sofa and an armchair blocking an easy path from one side to the other, their hulking mass a silent threat that made Grantaire stop short. His nerves were stretched taut as wire, and it was only his paranoia that had him producing a shield charm even as a curse erupted from the shadowed corner opposite him.

It was lightning quick. Grantaire didn’t even speak, terror taking over as the curse hit his shield with a loud bang. Red light obscuring his vision, he shot back a Stunning Spell without consciously aiming, following it up with another as a shadow moved, and another for good measure.

A body fell with a thud, and Grantaire didn’t pause before shielding again and casting _homenum revelio_ at the ceiling. Nothing happened, and only then did he register that Enjolras was whispering his name.

“Aire? Aire, are you alright?”

“Yes.” He didn’t look behind him, walking around the sofa to get to the body of whoever he’d stunned, vaguely aware that he was shaking slightly, his heart beating a painfully quick tattoo against his lungs.

“Fuck, that was fast.” Bahorel laughed without his usual humour. “You didn’t need us at all! I’ve never seen a duel over so quickly!”

A duel? Grantaire shook his head at no one as he kicked the body over onto its back and backed away as soon as he had.

“It’s Montparnasse,” Enjolras told the others, beckoning them forward. “Combeferre?”

“Here.” Combeferre already had a vial in his hand, was already kneeling next to Montparnasse to lift up his head and drip Truth Potion past his lips. Grantaire backed further away and cast another _homenum revelio_ , just to be sure. No one but Enjolras and the others were in the building, and he let out a shaky breath, pressing his shoulder blades into the wall.

“Aire?” Jehan took a cautious step towards him, his wand held loose at his side. “Are you alright?”

Grantaire nodded, looking down at Montparnasse. “Fine,” he mumbled. “M’fine.”

Enjolras looked up at him from where he was kneeling opposite Combeferre, wand pressed to Montparnasse’s chest. “Ready?” At Grantaire’s nod, he cast a Silencing Charm on Montparnasse, put a Leg-Locker Curse on him, and conjured rope to bind his hands. Only then did he wake him up. “Rennervate.”

Montparnasse struggled furiously for several seconds before giving up and glaring furiously at Grantaire, the only face he recognised.

“We’re not here to arrest you,” Combeferre said, and Montparnasse’s attention moved instantly to him. “We just want to ask you a few questions. You’ve been given a Truth Potion. If you refuse to cooperate, we will resort to violent means. Nod if you understand.”

Montparnasse’s eyes burned, but he jerked his head in what might charitably have been called a nod. Combeferre was unperturbed. “Very good,” he murmured, tapping his wand against Montparnasse’s chest. “Now, where are the other members of your organisation?”

“Eat shit, dog fucker,” Montparnasse snarled, and then shouted in pain as Bahorel stepped forward and kicked him in the side. Grantaire recoiled, Combeferre’s quick Silencing Charm on Montparnasse making the sound of it very obvious.

Enjolras was looking at him, Jehan was looking, Bahorel and Courfeyrac, even Montparnasse, his face contorting as he spat in Grantaire’s direction. Bahorel kicked him again and Grantaire crossed the room to escape back into the kitchen so fast Courfeyrac barely had time to get out of the way. His ears were ringing, his heart pounding too fast, his grip on his wand too tight.

He wasn’t in a cage. He just had to hold onto that, keep that thought in the front of his mind; ignore everything else. He wasn’t trapped, no one was keeping him still, his wand was in his hand, he wasn’t helpless, he wasn’t helpless, wasn’t helpless, wasn’t helpless –

“Aire?”

Grantaire reacted on instinct, flinching away from the hesitant touch on his shoulder and throwing up a Shield Charm so strong that Jehan stumbled back a couple of steps. They stared at each other for several long seconds, Grantaire’s wand still raised even though he knew rationally that Jehan wouldn’t attack him. Eventually, Jehan nodded and backed away, going back into the living room. Grantaire lowered his wand and moved further away from the door, as far away as he could get from the others without leaving the house. He couldn’t leave yet, not without Enjolras. He had to wait this out, no matter how unpleasant.

He didn’t know how long he stood in the kitchen, leaning against the wall next to the door and trying to convince himself half-heartedly that he was keeping watch and not hiding. From the next room he could hear the low murmur of voices, but he shook his head every time he picked up anything distinct, distracting himself by counting the tiles on the wall, or the number of dirty dishes and bowls on the counters. He stood so still, a mouse appeared, running out from a gap between two cupboards and going over to the floor below the oven to hunt for crumbs. Grantaire watched in silence as it nosed around for a few seconds, ate a couple of morsels of who-knew-what, and darted back behind the cupboards.

The quiet after it disappeared made Grantaire look up, frowning, just in time to hear someone – Enjolras? – say, “Obliviate!”

A moment later, Enjolras came out of the living room, the line of his shoulders easing when he saw Grantaire. “It’s over,” he whispered. “We can go now.”

Grantaire nodded and opened the door, leading them all back the way they’d come. Nobody spoke until they reached Joly several streets away. He sighed in relief when he saw them. “Thank goodness. Did it go well?”

“As well as we could have hoped.” Enjolras sounded satisfied, if not pleased. “We should split up. See you all at the Corinthe tomorrow?”

“Of course,” Jehan whispered, and the others nodded. Each of them glanced at Grantaire before they left, cloaks swishing around corners, Joly and Bahorel Disapparating then and there. Enjolras waited until they were alone, and then turned his head to look at Grantaire.

“Are you alright?”

“Fine.”

Enjolras nodded. “Shall we walk a bit? In case anyone heard Joly and Bahorel?”

“Sure.”

The night was chilly, but Grantaire was sweating as he walked, Enjolras on his right. For almost the entire length of the street, they didn’t say a word, and Grantaire let out a breath of relief when Enjolras finally spoke. “Montparnasse is the only one left. The others are all off chasing Éponine and Azelma, and one of them’s vanished – Montparnasse thinks he’s bolted, worried that the sisters went to the authorities. You should be safe, or at least not in any immediate danger from them.”

“We.” It came out in a whisper, and at Enjolras’ frown, Grantaire cleared his throat and said it again. “We. We should be safe.”

“He doesn’t know what I am.”

“Still.”

Enjolras huffed, but when Grantaire glanced sideways, he was smiling. “You can get your own apartment now,” he said softly. “Courfeyrac will help – he’s helped some of the others find new places too, when they’ve needed it. You can stay.”

Relieved he wasn’t focusing on the way Grantaire had practically fled from Montparnasse, even when he was under guard, it took a moment for Enjolras’ words to register. When they did, Grantaire nodded slowly, looking down. “Yeah.” He tried not to smile, but it was obvious in his voice. Moving closer, Enjolras held out his hand. Grantaire’s smile became a small grin as he took it, his heart seeming to flutter.

“The book won’t be published until the end of the year,” Enjolras murmured. “Probably, anyway. I hope…I’d really like you to be there, when it happens. I can give you a real copy,” he added, smiling in an almost embarrassed sort of way. “If you want one, I mean.”

“I’d like that.” Holding back his smile wasn’t even in the realm of possibility anymore. Emboldened by the effervescent feeling in his chest, Grantaire squeezed Enjolras’ hand, his heart jumping when Enjolras squeezed back. “I had your other book too,” Grantaire went on, his sudden burst of courage buoying him up. “It was in my old apartment, but I don’t know whether it’d be safe to get it, even if Patron-Minette is gone.”

“I have copies at home,” Enjolras said quickly. “You can have – you bought my book? Reflections?”

“Well, um. Not exactly.” Grantaire gave him an awkward look. “It’s kind of expensive, so…I stole it.”

Enjolras laughed, and pulled Grantaire to a gentle stop in the shadow of an empty alleyway. “I’ll give you a new one, if you like.”

“I liked it enough to steal it,” Grantaire grinned at him. “A new one would be…nice.”

Enjolras moved to face him, pressing his forehead briefly to Grantaire’s. “Then you’ll have one. Ready to go home?”

“Yeah.” Grantaire smiled, wrapping an arm around Enjolras’ waist and screwing his eyes shut in anticipation. Enjolras kissed his temple, then wrapped his free arm around Grantaire and Disapparated them both, a faint pop the only marker of their disappearance.

 

Enjolras’ book, titled simply _Lycanthropy_ , was released in December 1971. In January 1972, a second print had to be produced because demand had outstripped supply. It was translated into several different languages and distributed abroad, selling well despite anti-werewolf protesters turning up to almost every release event.

In 1975, a British publishing company, Whizz Hard Books, agreed to publish an anonymous werewolf’s account of his life – _Hairy Snout, Human Heart_. In the late eighties, the recipe for the Wolfsbane Potion was published by Alerio Damocles, who received an Order of Merlin: First Class for his work.

Enjolras revealed his condition to the public in an article in the _Magie Aujourd’hui_ in 1990, and began helping the French Ministry of Magic reform the laws concerning lycanthropy. In 1999, at the age of 53, he was awarded an Order of Merlin: Second Class for his tireless work against discrimination against marginalised groups in the magical community. No one was prouder than Grantaire.

**Author's Note:**

> All glory and thanks to my INCREDIBLE artist for this project, [Apollo](http://amusain.tumblr.com/). Thank you also to Felix, who read bits of this as I wrote and yelled enthusiastic things in my direction. The title for this fic came from the song [God's Great Dust Storm](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=76a2If4OYmU) by Katzenjammer.
> 
> If you enjoyed this, please consider [buying me a coffee!](https://ko-fi.com/A221HQ9) <3


End file.
